


A Servant's Love Story

by Jamie_Anya



Series: Kingdom of Hiddlesworth [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Author Regrets Something, Family Feud - Freeform, Liam's job to make chaos, M/M, Minor Violence, Plot Twist!, Tom Feels, and Chris is there to help, betrayal and loyalty, emotional fic, poor Tom is caught in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Anya/pseuds/Jamie_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the late 19th century, young Thomas was disowned and banished from his family home in the countryside and went to find work, and a place to stay in the busy, industrialising London. Unexpectedly finding work as a male servant in an aristocrat's household - one of England's most elite families, the Hemsworth - Thomas incidentally found himself caught as the love-interest between two of the aristocrat's sons. </p><p>Thomas wanted to keep his job, and buy medicine for his ill sister - but the Hemsworth brothers kept giving him troubles that he knew should be punished for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Disgrace

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon my poor writing, this fic is not beta'd yet - English is not my first language, i'm afraid.

The tranquility of the early afternoon held sheer secrecy, damning the peace and the common, still rural air that breathed. Loud commotion filled the silence, angry shouts and deafening clamours of effects. Amidst the healthy plains, moored a run-down cottage seemingly isolated from the town. The cottage's door yanked open, a worn pack was thrown out to the mud as a young man was shoved out to the gloomy day, falling flat on his bottom. 

He winced at the dull pain of his lower back, groaning inwardly at the mud that had dirtied his clothes though shabby. He narrowed his eyes at his father who stood fuming at the foot of the door. 

The weary father's eyes flared, a brush of disappointment and sadness as he pointed his finger at his son. He thundered, "You are a disgrace to the family! You have humiliated me and your mother, you are a worthless _tramp_!"

"I only wanted to help, father...!" he cried, grovelling on the dirt, "Neither the factories nor the mines accepted me... They refused to spare me, because of our name! And being an apprentice too was high a job for a--"

"And you've had the audacity to sell yourself for money? You've sold your virtue, your dignity... You've sold _everything_! Was it an honourable job for you then?! After all the sacrifices i've done for you and your sisters?!"

"No...! It was the only way for me to help, to help you buy medicine for Emma... I do not have much choice. I never wanted to see you slaving yourself to find money alone. I do not want to be a burden, father... Only a few shillings left, and Emma will be fine," he pressed through his beg and cries, showing the coins to his father - his efforts to help him. Food was scarce in the family, medicine was too expensive. His father's wage, was relatively too little. He spotted his mother and his eldest sister, crying - _humiliated_ \- from the inside of their small house. And Emma, dear sweet Emma, he could picture her wheezing for air, beggingnfor his comfort.

He wanted to always be there for her, he wanted to save his little sister - after all of the nightmares she faced all those years ago. 

"I will never accept this..." his father muttered, shaking his head arrogantly. His breathing shallow, face coloured red in rage And bitter shame. "I myself will buy your sister's medicine. I do not need any money from a rotten _whore_!"

His father's scornful bane struck through his heart, like an agonizing poisoned arrow. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he crawled to beg for his father's forgiveness. Trembling hands grasped his father's leg, as he continued to weep. Pleading.

"F-Forgive me, father..."

It felt like a merciless lesson from a parent to his child when the fuming father pushed his son away, watching the young man sobbing as he stumbled back to the pooling mud. 

"DO NOT call me your 'father'. No more, Thomas..." the father's voice cracked, releasing broken gasps of shock and cries. His eyes welled in tears, he roared, "I will not care whatever you may do after. I would only ask of you, to never return _home_. You are no longer my son, you do not have a mother. You have no siblings! You have a family no more!"

The door slammed, and rattled shut in front of his face. His heavy chest heaved for air, his cheeks were stained with tears and dirt. He felt pained, useless. _Disowned_. 

Thomas had no home to return to. No more hopes for him to dream, no more courses for him to take on the path that looked blurry to his eyes. 

 

*

 

He spent days walking all the way to the city, it was an exhaustingly sleepless journey. And he was haunted with hunger. Thomas vowed that the few coins in his pocket would be used to buy for Emma's medicine, no matter how costly it was. He kept his growling stomach to himself as he passed through the marketplace, of fruits and fried delicacies - swallowing his thirst and crave when the food seemed to tempt him.

Searching for work, all available occupations turned him down. He always knew why - his whole family was blacklisted. With no job nor a place to stay, he had always found that life in the city was not a desirable place to live in. Damn town-dwellers and their innovations.

The whole city was itself horrendous, the streets were plagued with rats, corpses and diseases. The roads were crowded with men, women and hungry children. Crying infants begged their mothers for food, drink and sanctuary to be raised in. But there was nothing the mothers could do but to spare everything that she had for her children. It was never a good sight to begin with. The sky was covered with dark, thick fogs floating that stemmed from the chimneys of many burning factories. Each store turned him down, with their illogical reasoning that seemed to repeat all by itself - 'too thin to do heavy-lifting', 'too low-class to work in stores'. 

He envied the young children who were able to find jobs better than him, though he knew their jobs were far more dangerous. How could he survive at a time like this? He was left to rot, and he had promised himself that he would never go back to his troubled past. 

Where could he find honest money to buy Emma's medicine in this worsened state?

Drowned in his grief, Thomas accidentally bumped shoulders with a man of a much higher in class than he was. And quickly picked up the lord's fallen pocket-watch, bowed and apologised, "D-Do forgive me, sir... I should have kept my eyes on where i was heading."

"It is not a problem, thank you," the lord wrinkled a friendly smile, and raised his pocket-watch in thanks as he slipped them back into his pocket. 

It had been so long that he'd received such a welcome smile from an upper-middle class. Thomas replied him with an equal curve on his lips and bowed his head in respect for the kind lord. Making his turn to leave before hearing the same croaked voice calling him back. 

The noble spoke up, "Young man, what is your name?" 

Pausing his steps, he turned back to the old lord and said, "T-Thomas, sir."

He curved yet another smile that spread across his face, there was no ill intention - Thomas noticed. He looked pleased. The lord's cane tapped onto the ground as he walked nearer to the him and noted, "It is not always for a young man like you to respect an official, due to our current circumstances. You speak with eloquence for your class, your eyes draw sorrow and your youth emits the need for happiness. Why are you searching for work when you have these attributes?"

It was a simple analysis from a brief observation of what the lord saw in Thomas. 

"P-Pardon?"

"The reference you're holding," he pointed at the old sheet of paper folded in Thomas' hand, "To which i've come to notice that it is quite empty. You are a man with education, are you not? London is not the best of beginnings for you. But i should not dwell into your life, it is what a man wanted! Just starting to gain some experience?"  

Thomas felt guilty, with the need to hide his hollowed past that he certainly had been working in the darkest streets for quite awhile - where the money he earned was quite hefty than a normal wage of a factory worker. He didn't want to lie to this kind lord, just when the old man's smile reminded him that not all upper and middle classes were snobbish people. But the job that he ever had was never honest, it was _dirty_. 

"O-Oh, yes! I am, sir... But it seems that luck is not on my side at the moment," Thomas let out a hesitant chuckle, his heart slowed when he noticed the unwanted pity that sketched on the lord's face. 

"I can see that i will never regret this, young Thomas. But what do you think of working in my household?" the lord offered kindly, hands strayed to his hips as he waited for Thomas' answer. 

"...Sir?"

 

*

 

Thomas had learned that the lord's name was Lord Craig Hemsworth, the Head of the Imperial Court, a General and he also led one of England's most elite families. The wealthy family owned various of businesses and factories all over the country, investing a number of mines in the eastern countries and the whole family was notorious for their intelligence and prowess. These were their assets, valuable to the House of Royals. There would be mountains of responsibilities to work in an aristocrat's household, but the pay was handsome - and Thomas couldn't help but to accept the lord's offer. Though he would gain a slight advantage of living in a rich mansion, where food and sanctuary guaranteed. 

He was then introduced by the lord himself to the servants - as a new member of the life below the stairs - with a smile plastered on his face that Thomas couldn't stop thinking that the lord was proud to have him. It felt nice, he would work for money no matter what and how disgusting the job would be and was posted as a trainee footman under the supervision of the house's butler who would teach him how to work adeptly.  

All the servants were surprisingly friendly, they were easy to approach and with words that warmed them up. Thomas befriended the old gardener, one of the proud footmen and the chef herself as he found humour on how the old chef would scold her helpers when they were wasting their time staring at his pair of blazing blue eyes. The butler, Branagh was a respectable individual though he ruled the servants with an iron grip but he was a shockingly gentle old man. And Thomas quickly mastered the skills required to be a footman, and it was all thanks to the growing warmth from now his one, huge family.  

A few weeks later, he discovered that the price for a small flask of medicine was too costly for him - it was growing far too expensive. Thomas counted that it would take him more than a month to buy them for Emma. He prayed every night, for his sister's good health. Oh, how he wished that he could still be there for her - holding on to her trembling hands, hushing her to sleep and bracing her with love to shook her nightmares away.  

Weeks to months, the night had finally dawned for Thomas to begin his first show and work upstairs. A night to welcome home one of Lord Craig's sons. Clad in his elegant uniform, neatly combed hair and a pair of new gloves - his friend, a fellow footman named Benedict wished him luck. A pat on the back, cheers and smiles escalated his motivation. Along with the other male servants and Branagh himself, they served the Hemsworth family and their number of guests delicious rounds of dinners and poured their choice of wine.  

The vast dining room was rich and golden; clinking silvers and bronzes, cheerful laughs that filled the easy air of the lords, the ladies, their sons and daughters and their prim and proper grandchildren. It was ironic that the life of the aristocrats differed from the classes lower than theirs. He felt like there were two worlds existed in one - and he was in between, but his continuing life reminded him that he would always remain a lower-class. There was no route to take him back to the life he had before. As Thomas poured the tasty red wine into the master of the house's glass, the lord finally noticed him.  

"Oh! Thomas! It's good to have you here! You look rather dashing, i must say! How have you been, young man?" the lord chuckled, eyes beaming in anticipation. 

By the look of his employer's face, the giddiness of it all, he never seemed nor sounded like he regretted hiring Thomas into the huge household. All of his elegance, the proud curve of his stance and the easy smile were to be envious of. 

"My lord has coloured me brightly, i thank you," Thomas smiled, wiping the mouth of the wine bottle before replacing them back into the bucket of ice.  

The lord laughed, patting the young footman's back, "Isn't that soothing to the ear? I've been hearing a lot about you from Branagh, Thomas. You've made me proud. That is what i call determination!"

The eyes that stared at him were thankfully positive, heads nodding in agreement as they acknowledged the young servant.

Bowing his head down, Tom calmly replied - following all of what he had learned, "I thank you, my lord."

While the lords and the ladies of the house resumed their conversation about the world's recent topics; of crime, the colonies and the riots, Thomas retraced back to where he was supposed to stand - near his friend, Benedict. He noticed him curving a small smile, mouthing a 'great job' before awaiting for their orders.

Apart from the lively crowd, Thomas accidentally shifted his eyes to a young master who was raising his head to him - holding out his glass of wine, and mouthed 'cheers'. 

It was unexpected.

Thomas felt his face slowly heating up, taking his eyes away from the handsome man as he stood firm on his ground. Glancing once, then twice at the lord who watched him affectionately. His gut was fluttering, his heart hammering wildly against his chest as Thomas caught himself in a daze by the pair of beautiful cerulean eyes.


	2. Young Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's start with a bit of adorableness, shall we? The chapter's a bit fast-paced, i'm so sorry!
> 
> Pardon my poor writing, this fic is not beta'd yet - English is not my first language, i'm afraid.

Benedict elbowed him lightly, raising his eyebrows which seemed to question, 'Are you fine? Your face is ridiculously red.'

Thomas nodded quickly, lowering his gaze to the carpeted floor as he breathed in quietly, and clutched on the cuffs of his jacket. It would be disrespectful to the lords and the guests if he was to clear his throat or to release a sigh. The warm blushes that crept on his cheeks slowly ceased, and when he raised his head back up - trying to maintain his elegance as hard as he could - his eyes met the slight humour in the young master. The way the man bit back his lips to stifle his quiet laugh, the pair of soft blue eyes that glittered amusingly had made Thomas somewhat embarrassed. 

Then, there was that charming grin that spread across his face - the expression he conveyed told Thomas of the friendly personality that the young master possessed. He felt a brush of assurance, warmth and responsibility. The young lord was indeed beautiful, the short mess of soft dirty-blond hair along with his perfectly tailored suit. 

If only that best suited to describe an upper-middle classman of a very influential family.

A few moments passed, the servants who were present in the dining hall began to pack up the used dishes as the lords, the ladies, and their guests moved to the nearby sitting room. Cleaning up the plates, forks and glasses, Thomas dutifully brought them downstairs for the kitchen maids to wash.

On his way back upstairs, Branagh asked him to change the dining sheets while the other footmen attended to the favours of the rich company and their guests - serving them their hot evening tea of lemon, freshly brewed Ceylon and English with milk, cigars and mingles. Thomas did what he was told, folding the sheet before handing them to a laundry maid and retired downstairs to have his dinner with the other servants. 

Peeling out of his suit jacket, Thomas sighed in content - the night was a huge success for him. And the fact that the handsome young master had captivated his heart, and thus brightened his moments. He recalled, the young master's pair of cerulean eyes looked similar to the beautiful Lady Leonie. 

Blues were always wonderful, he wondered if this was what love at first sight meant. 

"Thomas! Come eat your dinner, darling, before it gets cold," Mrs. Nicol, the old cook of the household, called him from the kitchen as she curved a sweet, wrinkled smile. 

She had prepared him his delicious dinner - soup with cabbage, carrots, turnips and beetroot - though simple, it was enough for his hungry stomach. And it even smelled so nice! Thomas thanked her with a kiss on her cheek, before earning a playful slap on his arse as the cook ushered him to enjoy his evening gift for his hard-work.

While eating his dinner with a few older servants who doted and shared their past stories with him, he attentively listened to their heartbreaking lives. Thomas could relate them to his own - on how difficult it was to be a servant, the under-class of the society. As Thomas was about to share them his life - the story after his nightmares - they heard a soft knock on the door of the servant's dining area, and abruptly rose from their seats when they realised it was one of the house's masters.

Spoons clanking against their ceramic bowls and the table, their chairs scraped against the wooden floor. Thomas widened his eyes, it was the same young master from upstairs.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Russo, who too was eating her dinner with Thomas quickly greeted the unexpected young master, "Oh my, Master Christopher! Forgive us of our untimely dinner--"

"No, no. It's quite all right. I came to have a bit of a chat since upstairs is starting to bore me," he smiled as he cleared his throat, perhaps a nervous tick, "Do you mind?"

"Oh, sir! Not at all! Please," the housekeeper led him to sit on Branagh's chair, then asked him, "Would you like some tea?"

"If it's not a bother," Christopher said, getting comfortable on the wooden chair as he heard Mrs. Russo telling the maids in the kitchen to swipe up a light snack for the kind young master.

When Thomas was about to take his dinner away along with the other senior servants, he considered about whether to eat somewhere else or to throw them away. Though still hungry, the young master stopped him, "Please, Thomas. Do accompany me, after all, i came down here wondering if we could have some bit of conversation."

"W-With me, sir?"

"Is that wish a bit too much?"

Christopher smiled when Thomas shook his head, unable to speak as he was feeling a bit uncomfortable around the handsome young master. He gestured Thomas to return to his seat and said, "...I've never seen you before, or heard anything about you. Father is quite secretive at times. Are you new?"

Fidgeting on his seat, Thomas replied, "Yes, i started a few months ago actually. I mostly helped out in the kitchens and tend the gardens outside."

"And tonight was your first?" he beamed, leaning forward to the footman.

"Yes, sir."

Christopher whistled admiringly, as there was an upward tug on the corner of his lips, "I hope it went perfectly."

"...It was more than perfect, sir," Thomas said, shocked at how the words had slipped easily from his tongue before he could stop it. His face flushed when he noticed Christopher's alluring gaze on him, another smile formed on his lips. Thomas wondered what it meant.

Mrs. Russo then served Christopher his tea and light snacks of sweet-buttered bread, giving Thomas a knowing look before she walked into the kitchen - shutting the door to prevent any innocent lookers of the other younger servants. She couldn't have known his sexual interest, or perhaps it was because of Christopher's presence.

Daring to resume his dinner to prevent his stomach from growling, he heard Christopher heaved a light chuckle, "I used to eat my soup with crusted bread back in America."

"You've been to America, sir?" Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow in sheer interest.

He would love to venture the outside world, but his current situation never promised him any desirable freedom. The young master hummed, biting on the bread, "Finishing my studies and all, it wasn't all interesting... But i preferred my life back there."

"...Do you mind me asking how it was?"

"I've had my taste of raw independence! I ate plain porridges every morning, more vegetables to my meals than any succulent meat. But i'm telling you, it was perfect," he recalled, smiling at his good memories.

Thomas nodded, he acknowledged that the young master never liked the fame and the wealth of his family. Swirling his cooling soup with his spoon, Christopher then plopped a few bits of his crusted bread into the footman's dinner.

"Give it a go," he winked.

The flush on his face returned once more, as he took an experimental bite on the foreign taste that tingled on his tongue. It was heavenly. But then, he realised that he was eating Christopher's snacks all to himself.

"Oh dear lord, d-do forgive me, sir, i-i'm--"

"Thomas," Christopher held his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb against the footman's knuckle. He whispered, "If this is truly what they call love at first sight... Then i have nothing to say against it."

"Young master--"

Kissing Thomas' knuckles, Christopher looked pleased and confessed, "You stole my heart."

As he released his hold on Thomas' hand, he grabbed a few strips of the sweet bread before giving him a wink and turned his heels up the stairs as he munched on the bread. Thomas stood in shock, that was too sudden! And he would have a lot of explanations to do - especially to Branagh and Mrs. Russo.

 

*

 

Thomas found himself in a slight predicament, Christopher was apparently in love with him. And he too, with equal likeness, fell dangerously in love with the son of the old lord who took him in. It was against a servant's rule, never to fall in love with their masters. Also, with the fact that love between two men was strictly forbidden in their current society, everything must be kept in secret. But Christopher was too attached to avoid, too charming to look away. 

Their paths would cross even in the mansion itself when the servants were doing their cleaning and preparing, and there was a time when Christopher secretly helped him fixing the broken grandfather clock in the empty grand foyer. 

The young master stood closely behind him, placing his broad hand on Thomas' shoulder as he rested the other on top of the footman's trembling hand. Christopher's breath tickled his ear, and the classy cologne that he wore suited him much. He manoeuvred them to turn the gears, swiping the dusts off a small mechanical device before the clock started to tick again.

They would stay like that for a few moments, hands linked as Thomas admired on how Christopher's hand fit his perfectly. He could feel the tip of the young lord's nose nuzzling against his blond curls, as blood rushed to his head. Before Mrs. Russo interrupted with a cough behind them, Thomas heard Christopher's whisper.

"...Hear my soul speak: The very instant that i saw you, did my heart fly to your service." 

Thomas blushed even redder, he remembered that quote somewhere - it was one of Shakespeare's love quotes, from the Tempest. 

Letters would appear in his bedroom, slid through the crack below his door on the floor as Thomas would receive them everyday. They were all from Christopher, in his neat and curvy handwriting; his shares about his time in America, his experience working in the mines - his stories. Apart from the excitement Thomas could imagine the young lord was having when writing, the footman knew that Christopher couldn't stop thinking about him.

 

_'...how are you? I hope you are well, and i hope you too think about me...'_

 

_'...summer is quite dreadful, isn't it? Never liked it...'_

 

_'...each passing day... your face has always managed to put up a smile on me...'_

 

_'...you're beautiful, Thomas...'_

 

_'...i wish i could share you my eye and see how beautiful the world looks to me right now...'_

 

And he, likewise.

It made his heart all skittish, and Thomas thought of writing them back but considered the consequences if Branagh, and the lord of the house knew. 

He counted the letters, all 74 of them in 74 days which started a week after their first meeting that night. The young lord was overly romantic, as Mrs. Russo had shared him a lot about Christopher's adorable childhood, and there he learned that Christopher was two years younger than him - age 21. 

And every passing week, Christopher would send him a rose. And he would keep the wilted petals in an envelope.

 

*

 

After receiving his pay and checked the money he had collected thus far, it was enough to purchase Emma's medicine now and was fortunate that his sister's health hadn't worsened yet. He asked for a permission to go to the city from Branagh and walked on foot to the medicine store. When he did, despite the large hole he'd burnt in his pocket, he paid a trustworthy messenger, Mr. Renner, to send it to his mother and thus cure Emma.

He didn't care if his father would discover it or not, as he would continue buying the medicine as much, and as long as he could.

Christopher walked out from a well-known broker's office in London, having finished taking care of his family's wealth, securing their empire and all of the investments they had waged on. Sighing as he watched his driver opening the car door for him, he spotted Thomas surveying the antiques of a retail shop through a window. This was a good chance, he was delighted to see the footman. Christopher was having a rather rough day and he figured, Thomas would cheer him up.

Not straying his eyes off from Thomas, he said to his driver, "Evans, you go ahead and return home."

"But sir--"

"Please, i'll have Thomas to walk with me," Christopher smiled, patting his driver's back before turning his heels to other side of the street. He called back, "Tell mama and father i will be home as soon as i can!"

Slipping through the crowds easily, Christopher grinned - Thomas looked even dapper than his usual working suit. 

"Good afternoon, Thomas," the young master greeted, leaning on the window frame as he met the widening bluish-grey eyes. 

He stuttered, "Y-Young master!"

"Thomas, just call me Christopher," he chuckled, hiding his hands in his pockets.

"But surely, i can't--"

"I insist. Do you mind if we walk home together?"

"It's quite a long walk, sir-- Christopher... I don't really recommend the walking in this afternoon heat," Thomas smiled hesitantly, looking at the calmness of the young master in front of him.

Christopher winked at him, peeling out from his jacket and slung them over his shoulder, "It's all right, i need that burst of some exercise at the moment."

The two walked home, side by side along the dusty road of the countryside. There, Christopher enquired about Thomas' life and the footman told him everything, but with one exception about selling off his body for a few days in Oxfordshire. He had to forget the bitter memories of strangers pound themselves into him, and it would never been so easy.

To break the awkward silence between them, watching Christopher kicking a pebble with his shoe, Thomas murmured, "The letters... Thank you."

"It was a pleasure, Thomas. Though, i do hope i could at least know h-how, or what... umm," Christopher started, faint blushes crept on his cheeks as he scratched the back of his head.

Understanding what the young master meant, Thomas nodded as he curved a genuine smile and answered, "...I like you too."

Christopher's face was flushed in deep red, he didn't know if it was because of the heat or because of what Thomas had said to him. A few paused moments passed, he smiled. Instead of holding his hand or kissing him, since Thomas knew that would only make himself more hesitant to comply - he wrapped an arm around Thomas' shoulder as they walked home in a comfortable silence. 

It started with an unwanted friendship at first, though they both knew it would bloom into something more intimate. Like true lovers, one day.

 

*

 

Days to weeks to months living in the Hemsworth household, Thomas' relationship with Christopher had grown perfectly fine. it was more than he could have asked for. Until one day, he was informed that the youngest member of the Hemsworth family was returning home from Oxford. The kitchen was busy, servants calmly yet quickly prepared the dining table for lunch, woods for the fireplace, gardens to stroll and horses to ride on.

All servants stood outside the grand mansion, lining side by side according to the respective ranks as Thomas stood beside Benedict, behind the ladies and the masters of the house as a vehicle arrived with a honk. The servants bowed when another young Hemsworth stepped out, and was greeted by the hugs and kisses from his mother and father.

Lady Leonie pecked on her youngest son's cheek, "Look at you, you've grown up so fast! Did you lose weight, darling? Oh, my poor boy."

"Mama, i'm feeling rather embarrassed. But i can assure you, i'm really, really healthy," he said, hugging his mother as he nodded his head at his father.

The eldest of the brothers, Luke, finally spoke up, "Just look at his height, mama, he's even taller than Christopher!"

"Only an inch taller, mind you," Christopher countered, grinning on his brothers before glancing to Thomas whom he'd noticed was frowning. 

Blinking, through his past and recent memories, Thomas realised something as he focused his eyes clearly on the youngest Hemsworth's face. That cross-shaped pin on the right lapel of his jacket, it was familiar. Until realisation hit him that Liam, was one of his ' _buyers_ ' from before. 


	3. Liberations for the Poor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon my poor writing, this fic is not beta'd yet - English is not my first language, i'm afraid. 
> 
> I promised myself that i would post the third chapter along with my 'As You Wish' as a Saturday special - but eh, you know how weird someone's brain works, right? And i should probably go find a new one... Hmm.
> 
> Hope you'd enjoy! And yes, i LOVE your comments!! I'm drowning in them, in a good way of course! <3 <3

Liam was not exactly the kind of man you'd be expecting to buy you on the streets for a night of lust. He was a man of many talents, envious amount of skills - creativity, physicality and intelligence. His appearance was of a perfect gentleman, but his truer self, the other half that he hid beneath his darling smiles, as Thomas had learned was entirely foreign to his eyes. The supposedly perfect first impression was no longer or perhaps, never there.

Thomas remembered the day he was desperate to make a bargain out of everything he owned for the sake of Emma's health. The owner of an infamous brothel, Mum Carter, told him that he could find 'easy-money' from the working and studying aristocrats in Oxfordshire who would secretly buy young men to satisfy their hungry lust for a night - it was apparent that men were more cheaper than women in the alleys. Thomas went there of course, despite the shouts and the screams of his inner voice to stop whatever he intended to do and turn back home.

But Mum Carter was right, the lusty, disgusting upper-class men paid him much greater than 15 shillings of a mere factory worker. Though, everything that he did, always came with a price that he must sacrifice - his state of mind, and his body. Nightmares haunted him for selling off his dignity and his family's name, to the point that he couldn't even call himself a man any more.

To make matters worse before his frame of mind threatened to break, there came Liam - a student from a well-known University of Oxford. Younger, taller, bigger and stronger than him. It was because of the tempestuous Liam that Thomas resorted on telling his family about his 'work' when he came home bleeding, battered and ill. Because of what Liam had done to him, Thomas had stopped thinking that selling off his body to the said man was not a part of his consent at all. He knew Thomas was desperate to find and earn money for an ill family member, and he tricked him into it.

That cross-shaped pin was the only piece of his shattered memory that Thomas had of the man who practically raped him. Humiliated him in front of a dozen of cheering, and atrocious crowds.

He swallowed, lowering down his head as he stepped a pace behind Benedict and the house's tall under-butler, Zachary. It would be better to hide, and would be a bitter problem for Thomas, to be recognised by Liam in front of the others, the lord and Christopher, as no more but a male prostitute.

Thomas startled when Mrs. Russo touched his elbow, she whispered to him, "You look pale, Thomas. Are you ill?"

His head was weighing him down as his memories rushed into him without warning, but he shook his head. And gasped when the quiet wife of the eldest Hemsworth, Lady Samantha, heeded him in worry. Thomas begged her not to utter anything that might involve him with the slight bit on his lower lip and a shake of his head, and she didn't. She gave him a small, assuring nod before turning her heels to the lively brothers as they all went inside.

When the servants turned to return back to the kitchens, while a few others followed the masters - Thomas felt himself wheezing for air, as he collapsed down to the ground. The nightmares had returned, crashing and banging against his head and he wished that Liam had forgotten everything about him. He heard Benedict's voice, and Mrs. Russo too. There was a hand on his shoulder, and seemed like somebody was holding onto his arm.

Then the world spun around him, embracing him in complete, and cold darkness.

"Thomas?!"

And he wondered whose voice that belonged to.

 

*

 

"You go have your rest, Thomas," said Branagh, checking all of the steaming dishes set on the counters as all of the kitchen-maids scurried about to prepare another set of meals, and desserts. "I'm not having you, looking so dreadfully ill, in front of the family. And Benedict will take your place for lunch and dinner today."

Thomas sighed, his shoulders slumped on his sides as he hid his face in his hands - his jacket slung on the back of the kitchen chair, his bow was crooked and an empty glass placed on the table - he woke up a few moments after he blacked out, feeling terribly light-headed to even try to stagger a walk.

Just when everything was going incredibly fine for him after a long while, Liam's presence popped in and destroyed his longed peace. Or maybe, Thomas was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Then, Branagh placed his hand to pat on Thomas' shoulder, and said, "If anything happens to you again, Mrs. Russo will not be the only one in worry."

"...S-Sir?" Thomas raised his head to meet the man's eyes, he couldn't read them.

The butler gestured his hands to the servants, even though they were too caught up in their work, they still glanced over to them and casted him a worried gaze, "We are your family, Thomas. Of course, we'll worry about you."

Branagh then left him alone, going up the stairs along with the other footmen with trays of delicious meals on their hands to be brought upon and to serve the hungry masters and ladies upstairs. Thomas never wanted to be pitied, but he somehow needed it in the meantime - no matter how much he put on a brave front, someone would tend to notice his problem. Though, it was such a nice thing to be included in another part of a family in your position. It certainly felt really nice and warm.

Water was poured into his empty glass, filling it up as Mrs. Russo sat on the opposite seat. She asked him to drink, and he did. Thomas didn't even realise he was that thirsty, and that his throat was sore when he gulped the water down.

"Do you have something in your mind? As far as i recall, you were perfectly healthy yesterday and you ate your breakfast this morning and your dinner last night," she said, furrowing her eyebrows as she leaned forward, "...What happened?"

He wanted to tell her, but he was afraid of being hated.

The world was never on his side at times like these.

"...Nothing happened. Maybe it's the weather," he lied.

 

*

 

Laughing at Liam's jokes, the whole family felt complete once again - the atmosphere of the dining hall that lunch was cheerful, and bright, but somehow something felt uncanny for Lady Samantha. Keeping a close attention to both her lively surroundings, and her beautiful small children, she kept noting amusingly on the slackened face her brother-in-law had. Thanking Benedict as he poured her their finest wine for the day, she took an experimental sip and loving the sweet taste that lingered on her tongue before glancing back on Christopher.

His eyes darting about in concern, as if he was searching for something in the room that no one knew. Samantha thought of something, or someone, but decided to keep quiet even though Christopher was always the quiet one amongst the brothers. But there was a knowing smile curving on Samantha's lips, hidden away as she wiped her mouth with her napkin - amused of her brother-in-law's obvious attraction on certain someone that was absent in the room. Until...

"Kenneth? Where's Thomas?" asked Lord Craig, swirling on his glass of wine as he looked over his shoulder to the old butler.

"He is a bit ill, m'lord. He has been working quite excessively as of late."

Lady Leonie gasped, her hand brought up to her mouth, "Oh, dear... Is he all right?"

Samantha looked over at Christopher again, his expression, too, was in deep worry - as if he was about to dash away from the dining room and up the servant's quarters.

"Yes, madam. He is fine, i do apologise for his absence today," Branagh bowed his head down in his sincerest apologies, but Lord Craig waved his hand at him to stop.

"Not to worry about that, Kenneth. Thomas has been such a bright young man, we wish for his good health," he smiled, earning a gratifying look from his wife as they resumed to eat their lunch.

Samantha heard Christopher releasing a quiet sigh, relieved as he bit on the small bits of chicken that he had spent a few minutes on cutting whilst his eyes searched for a certain footman a few moments ago. She had been observing them for days, and everything made sense now. Yet, it looked pleasingly beautiful and sounded adorable to her ears.

"Who is Thomas?" Liam asked, looking up from his half-eaten plate.

Gulping on his glass of water, Luke cleared his throat, "Thomas is one of our newest footmen. Father took him in and he's been such a wonderful fellow. You should have seen how enthusiastic he is if you ask him about literature, it is quite interesting i tell you!"

"He's a part of the family too, as i expected him to bring good to the family name. So i suggest you to treat him the same," Lord Craig said as he warned his youngest son, and pointed his fork at him.

Christopher's eyes returned to his plate, as his mind pondered, 'to the family name...'

He noticed Liam shrugging a shoulder, and he spoke up after sipping on his wine and grimaced at the strong taste of alcohol, "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just missing this meal a real lot."

Their mother chuckled, caressing her son's cheek lovingly, "How long are you staying, dear?"

"I'm not quite sure, there's an awful riot in Oxford at the moment. And i'm not returning there until the police has settled everything," Liam sighed, finishing his lunch as his eyes glowered darker and darker. He listened to his father's and brothers' conversation about the outrage of factory workers in Oxford, as his mind drifted.

That name 'Thomas', sounded familiar to him, but he'd forgotten where he heard the said name.

 

*

 

Behind the great mansion, they had three acres of garden intersected by a stream which a devoted gardener attended to almost every day. Going down the stone steps to the stunning garden in the summer of the mansion's yard, Thomas spotted Samuel sprinkling water over the bright flowers and shrubs on the land. Samuel was a black, once a slave from America before Lord Craig offered him sanctuary and liberty in the household and he was forever in debt with the master's steadfast kindness. There was no equality for him outside the mansion's gates, and so, he never bothered to step outside the compound.

Smiling when he listened to the familiar whistle of a children's song, 'London Bridge', he halted a few steps back as he watched the inspiring old man doing his job dutifully. Samuel was like a father figure to him ever since the first day Thomas worked in the household.

"Do you need a hand there, Samuel?" he asked, shielding his eyes from the glaring afternoon sun.

"Thomas, what did i tell you, my work is outside here and yours is inside there. Why don't you just run along and let me take care of the garden?"

"But you've been out here since morning."

"I'm a gardener, remember? It's my duty to keep things beautiful," Samuel smiled, turning his face to the footman.

Thomas just stood there, and stared at him. He wanted to help this warm-hearted old man, not out of pity of his age, it was because of this man that had done so much for him. As far as to share him his bits of bread in the kitchen when Thomas was still hungry from his small first meal in the household.

Samuel gave in, sighing as he shook his head, "We'll only have to sprinkle some water over them. To keep them hydrate, you hear me?"

"Thank you," Thomas grinned, taking over the water hose and aimed the nozzle lightly over the shrubs and flowers.

Droplets of water glittered amazingly against the sun, it was like looking at a heavenly paradise. Though the flowers would wilt, some would be closing real soon due to the drastic change of the weather. After he was finished, he rolled the water hose back to its main pipe and soon joined Samuel as they both sat at the end of the stone steps.

"I've heard of what happened. Did you take your medicine yet?" Samuel spoke, flapping his hat to cool his warm skin as he glanced at the young man beside him.

"I did," Thomas replied, rolling his sleeves to his elbows.

"Are you fine now?"

"I am."

Samuel too think of Thomas as a son he never had, though he never wanted to be angry at the fate that never granted him anything that he wished for. The short answers that he received from Thomas, and the constant wandering gaze at the blank air, he knew something was bothering him.

He sighed, placing his hat back to his head, "You've been living here for nearly a year now, Thomas... I am old, and i can tell who's lying and who's not. We have all told you our stories, the past that we used to restore our future. But you have never told us yours."

"...I think i already did, they are more or less the same as the others. Same like you."

"But was it all? Did you really tell us everything?"

Thomas bit down his lips, "...I-I don't know."

He wanted to tell him, but still, he was afraid of being hated. Especially by those he cared about - he never wanted to experience the dread of being cast out again. No more.

Samuel sensed the footman's gloom, and thought of something that maybe could help him with his thoughts. He said, "Our stories used to be so simple, Thomas. Born into this world, live and die. But it was the life-changing subject that makes us different from the others..."

"Like what?"

"Challenges, people that we meet, the things that we learn and whether the world is beautiful to your eyes or not. It's what makes our stories different, and we learn from it... The good and the bad. That's why we listen to them."

"But I don't think my story worth your time, Samuel... It's, not what you may expect to learn of me," Thomas murmured, hugging his knees closer to his chest.

The old gardener patted his back, and ruffled his now unruly curls with his large calloused hand. This warmth, Thomas hoped Samuel was his father. To which this gesture meant 'it's all right' , 'you're fine' , 'the world is never in black and white'. Ah, how much he missed being back at home. Then, they heard footsteps behind them - it was Christopher in his sinfully elegant suit.

Samuel started as he and Thomas stood and bowed down to him abruptly, "Young master Christopher...! D-Do forgive us--"

"Samuel, Thomas, it's alright. You don't have to apologise," he chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Standing awkwardly under the worried gaze of the young master, Thomas stole a glance at Samuel - he couldn't read him, what happened to his sense of discovery today?

"Samuel? Can you leave us for a moment?" Christopher asked politely, earning an understanding nod from the old gardener.

"Of course, sir."

They both watched him walked back into the mansion, as Christopher beckoned him with his hand, "Walk with me, Thomas."

And he did, walking through the breath-taking garden that Samuel himself crafted. They enjoyed the picturesque view of summer colours of flowers, shrubs and the darkening sky. Side by side, Thomas noted at their differences in height. Name. And status.

How far lower he was compared to his dear Christopher.

"I heard you fell ill. Supposedly a sick man must cower inside his home, resting beneath his bundles of sheet."

Noting on the tease, Thomas felt ashamed.

"I-I'm terribly sorry, sir, i--"

"Christopher. You're supposed to call me, Christopher, remember?" he smiled, linking his hand with Thomas'. The footman was trembling at this sudden closeness between him and the young master, he wasn't sure if he wanted this relationship or not after he knew Liam was his younger brother.

"...Right, Christopher."

His other hand moved to feel the slight heat on his forehead, and frowned, "And you were fine yesterday too, how odd."

"Yes..."

"Is there something i should know about? You looked like you've seen a ghost earlier, anything the matter?"

He wanted to tell, his dear... Dear Christopher. But he was afraid. Too afraid.

"No, everything's fine," he lied, curving a smile on his lips as he kept his gaze with the beautiful pair of cerulean.

Christopher's thumb stroked on the footman's cheekbone lovingly as his eyes danced to scan his face for any lies, doubts and sadness. But Thomas, could hide his emotions perfectly. And he wondered why.

"You do know that i love you, right?" he asked, holding on Thomas' hand gently as he could before giving his knuckle a kiss.

Thomas nodded hesitantly, "Yes."

"...But it pains me."

"What is...?"

Leaning his face forward, until they both felt their lips brushed against each other. Though blushes started to creep on his cheeks, Thomas couldn't help this irritating sense of dread at the pit of his stomach of Christopher's worry over him. The young master then whispered, "That you still don't have the heart to tell me your story... The story why you're so sad all the time."

For the first time in their relationship, they finally shared a kiss. Even though the kiss had burdened on Thomas' shoulders even more.

 

*

 

Later that evening, Thomas convinced Branagh that he was fine before he was allowed to return to work upstairs again. He was glad that Liam wasn't there at the dining hall, probably the said honorary student needed his rest and retired to his bed early. The master asked him how he was doing, and replied that he felt increasingly fine after taking his medicine.

Apart from the matters of the family that were discussed by the parents and their eldest son, Thomas curved a small smile at Christopher's hidden wink and flying kisses directed at him. He was standing at a few paces behind Luke, opposite to Lady Leonie who sat beside her middle child. Of course, they had all the secret flirts they could give to spare the moment. Until he spotted Samantha's fond smile at him - did she notice?

The hall door then opened, and there was Liam dressed simply in his suit as he walked in and sat down on his chair beside Christopher. They asked how he fare after resting, and he just shrugged and took a sip of his water. Thomas noted how differently he acted among his friends and his family - very impolite.

Thomas was trembling, he knew he couldn't keep hidden and away forever. And when Liam noticed him with a slight raise of his eyebrow, there was a sudden familiarity written on his face.

But nothing came out from his mouth that dinner.

After cleaning up the dining hall and the sitting room, he was ordered to make a last round-check on the household for locked doors and windows - secure the security of the mansion, and turn off the lights. Liam was just about to walk up the stairs from the mansion's library when he stopped him.

"Thomas, is it?" he started, pausing on the stairs.

"Y-Yes, sir."

Walking a bit closer to the withdrawing footman, he said, "This may be a bit sudden, but i'm sure i've seen you somewhere before. Have we met?"

"You must be mistaken, sir... There are a lot who share my face," Thomas hesitantly chuckled, though it was never true.

Liam nodded, "But not in terms of _name_ , perhaps. Still, i guess you're right."

"Good night, sir," he bowed, silently gulped as his eyes couldn't stop but glancing over the cross-shaped pin that he hated.

Though he knew, Liam was not convinced. The man had his wits, he wasn't stupid.

 

*

 

Ranging for a few weeks later, Thomas was fortunate enough that Liam was often never at home except for Christopher who would ask for his company when having his breakfast and lunch. The older servants noticed the attraction they both had for each other, but neither of them ever stopped the two from their forbidden love. It was a beautiful love story, as Mrs. Russo had mentioned to Thomas.

Branagh then told him to take a holiday for a day, and he intended to spend his time to town to purchase yet another medicine for Emma - to which the store owner had grown a liking to him and offered him a generous discount. He thanked the old lady, and went to search for Mr. Renner somewhere at the park.

Spotting him sporting a moustache, Thomas handed the medicine to him and a few coins for his delivery to home.

"Is Emma doing fine the last time you were there?"

He nodded his head before tucking the medicine and the coins into his pocket, "Yeah, she was sittin' on the swing you made for her. She looked great at least."

"Thank you, Mr. Renner," Thomas smiled, taking his leave as he heard the messenger called him back.

"You look like you could use a bit of advise, you up for it?"

"I don't understand."

"For starters, you can call me Jeremy, Thomas. You like listenin', right?"

Thomas followed him to Downey's Bar in town, taking in the usual scenery of drunken and singing men at the corner with girls too young to even drink. The dimmed lights that lit the whole bar which suited the atmosphere of brown and golden as Jeremy took a seat on a bar-stool and patted on the side for Thomas.

He looked around, eyeing the bottles on the cabinet. And grimaced, he never liked drinking anyway, he was only here for stories. Jeremy then snapped his fingers, "Hey, Robert! Get over here, i want you to meet someone!"

The owner, the bartender, walked to him in his crumpled sight of exhaustion and experience and age. He leaned forward to them as his elbows rested on the counter, and said, "I hope you're not out of job again, Renner. So, what'll it be, gentlemen? And i've never seen you before."

"Rob, this is Thomas. He's Hemsworth's footman," Jeremy whispered, ducking his head down to avoid any listening ear.

He didn't understand why the name 'Hemsworth' surprised him.

"Oh. Well, you don't exactly look like one, but eh," the owner shrugged, snapping a bottle from the cabinet on the back and placed it in front of them. He warned with a devilish smile, "If you get drunk, i suggest you to be careful because i tend to leave my customers out there to dry. They sometimes die too!" 

There was a tinge of sinister in the bartender's cackle - he guessed the man was quite serious about leaving his customers for death. Thomas noted the slight American accent lingering in his tone and voice, it was surprising yet admiring at the same time.

"My apologies, but... I don't drink," Thomas smiled sheepishly, "Can i have a glass of water instead?"

But there was that look on Robert's face that he wasn't quite able to read yet. With a sigh, the owner took out an empty glass cup and a jar of honey. Pouring a brand of tea that looked quite foreign to him with hot water, dropping a small amount of honey as he swirled the sweet-smelling tea with a spoon and served it to him.

Thomas gaped, the tea looked luxurious for him to drink and he wondered if he could afford it. Then, Robert winked at him, "It's on the house. You might want to savour the taste as you listen."

"Listen?"

"That's why you're here, right?" he smiled, before resuming his work to attend his other customers and throwing out a few drunkards from his bar.

He swallowed, smelling the sweetness of said tea as he took a sip - it was heavenly, and quite shocking that an owner like Robert would secretly serve tea in a bar. Jeremy then nudged him, taking a swig of the bottle of wine Robert had placed for them earlier, "That's the tea his wife loved, y'know?"

"It tastes heavenly."

"He never served it to anyone. But now he did, to a stranger he just met, it suddenly made things so confusin'," he said, before looking over his shoulder, "Up to that story-tellin' now?"

Thomas nodded, looking at where Jeremy pointed to him - an old lady, sitting alone at a corner, staring into nothingness. He whispered, "They said she was once an upper-class. Egoistic lady. Some things happened to her family's wealth, wiped away by her own husband, and now she was left with nothin'."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothin'. They also said that her daughters were sold to a brothel somewhere."

Why was the story sounded awfully familiar?

"How cruel..."

"That's what life is. That guy with the blue hat over there? Sittin' with a bunch of his young friends? He is the leader of the riots in Oxford, what supposed to be theirs was taken away by the bourgeoisie. Quite common, but you might want to think somethin' will eventually happen."

"What supposed to be theirs?"

"Humanity rights... They killed and pressured us working-class like we're some kind of animal to them. Dogs and guinea-pigs," Jeremy muttered silently, taking another swig of the bottle.

It all made sense.

 

Oxford.

 

That trick.

 

His humiliation.

 

Bleeding, battered and ill.

 

Riots.

 

And Liam and his accomplices that Thomas recognised.

Jeremy was right, the workers were seen as some kind of animal to the classes above them to when they were only desperate for money to live this ruined world.

 

*

 

Upon returning home, he started to reconsider the love he had for Christopher and the whole of Hemsworth family with the exception of Liam. Thomas wondered if he could tell his dear Christopher about his recent past, about how there was a riot in Oxford that might affect the family's growing business. He groaned, peeling out from his coat as Branagh told him that Liam had asked if Thomas could be his valet while the young master was still at home. And the problem grew a lot worse.

Hanging Liam's dinner jacket into his wardrobe, he tried to stop himself from his growing anxiety at the cross-shaped pin that rested and stared at him on a side-table. Until the quiet young master spoke.

"...I remember."

"Sir?"

It was in a split second that Liam had him pinned against the wall, gripping onto his wrists above his head in just one hand - how easily that he made Thomas feel so small.

He leaned closer, his pupils deflated as he whispered, "I bought you in Oxfordshire, for a night... It's a miracle that i found you here working for my family, no wonder your face looked awfully familiar."

"S-Sir, you are mistaken...!"

Gripping onto the footman's jaw, he forced Thomas' head to face him as he smirked at the apparent 'humiliation' that he remembered, "I was searching for you, did you know? You are cheap. Your smell, your taste, the feel that you granted me, and you even look like a girl..."

"P-Please...!" he begged, trying to yank his hands away from the young master's tight hold.

"Shhh, i remember you really well. Your eyes are the same pair i fell in love with. Do you know that you're beautiful, Thomas?"

And in his mind, he screamed at one name that he knew would save him.

'Help me...! Christopher...'


	4. Listen to my Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon my poor writing, this fic is not beta'd yet - English is not my first language, i'm afraid. 
> 
> Typing this chapter out, i locked myself in my room and spent my days crying. It was so depressing for my heart to handle : my eyes are swollen like puffy, fresh muffins and i have no more tears left. But don't mind about me, mind about Tom! T^T I'll try to completely express the actual social unrest back then, but i doubted that i would succeed. 
> 
> The story's pace is quite fast, don't you think? Or maybe because i have a lot of one-shot[s] in my mind *groans* ...Dear brain, i so hate you for working on your own. 
> 
> I know Liam is younger than Chris by 6 years in real-life, but with the POWER OF FICTION!! - 3 years gap between the two of them in here.

He felt staggeringly objectified, his state of humanity was reduced to sheer emptiness. There was no sense of remorse of what this man had done to him nearly a year back, there was nothing. Nothing at all. 

"Are you afraid of me, Thomas?" he smirked, enjoying the quiet whimpers, pleas and the trembles as he loomed closer to the footman. 

Thomas shrunk, avoiding Liam's imposing stares and the face that he tremendously hated. He tried to jerk his face away but the grip on his jaw tightened. He threatened him to open his eyes, and savour the dreadful taste of what was to come. Their faces were inches closer, Liam's lips ghosted against Thomas' - it was a tease, and the footman felt irritatingly disgusted to both Liam, and himself for being so weak. 

"...You should be. I am your _master_ , after all. I can do whatever i want with you without charge. And there is nothing you can do to avoid me." 

There was a growing hatred in him, his blood fuelled by this obvious discrimination. Damn the upper-classes! Before he could give a sharp scowl, foreign lips attached to his own and Thomas sealed his mouth close - these lips were not Christopher's! But Liam's hand raked against the skin of his throat, trailing down to his chest, stomach and slid into his trousers.

 

No...

 

Thomas let out a strangled cry as he tried to push him away with both of his now free hands. The young master's teeth bit onto his bottom lip, using his greater built and strength at his disposal - he had proven to be a lot stronger as his finger prodded into Thomas' entrance.

"P-Please! Stop...!"

"Did you really think that i would listen to you?"

Yanking a leg up, Liam grinned at how delicate this footman was, the struggling that heightened his lust. Gripping onto the edge of Thomas' trousers threatening to remove them, and the hands that begged to release him from this debauched torment. He spat, "Remember that you are nothing but a slut to my eyes..."

"I beg of you! No...!" Thomas cried.

The nightmares replayed all by itself in his mind, the events that followed and haunted him every night. The provoking laughs, the acrid cheers, the suffocating alcohol. The pain that lasted for weeks. Humiliation. Was this supposed to be the life of a poor working-class?

Then...

Christopher walked into the room with a knock on the door, and spoke, "Liam, there's something--"

His eyes laid on the crumpled mess of his darling footman, concerned about Thomas who stood stunned, paled and plastered to the wall. The footman quickly bowed to him, hiding his loose trousers and bit down the sting of being molested by his love-interest's own brother. Liam was standing in front of his dresser, seemingly occupied to untie his crooked tie as he looked at his brother over his shoulder.

The atmosphere was tensing, as Christopher was wary of Thomas' obvious trembles. He looked frightened.

"What--" he started, but Liam cut him off.

"--Do you want, brother?" he said, slipping his tie from his collar.

Frowning, Christopher was taken aback by his brother's lack of respect and the drastic change in attitude as he glanced back to Thomas whom he noticed was shedding his tears. Liam sensed his brother's suspicion, and ordered Thomas to leave with a wave of his hand.

"You can go now, Thomas."

"...Y-Yes, sir..."

Thomas' cheeks were stained with fresh tears, his nose and eyes were red, he even spotted the tiny rip on the side of the footman's trousers and the undone belt. Christopher swallowed his darling's fear, watching him retreating quickly and disappeared out of the room. Just how much he wanted to ask his dear Thomas right then and there, but somehow, his voice was caught in his throat. He was petrified with the sudden thought of an event that was about to unravel before he came in.

Yet, he felt angry.

Angry because he had to keep his family's reputation from loving a male servant as a secret from the whole chastising world, and that his Thomas... His beautiful Thomas, was tangled in between.

Liam sighed, unbuttoning the buttons of his cuffs, "What is it?"

"...Father told me to take you to Manchester tomorrow, there is something uncle Matthews wanted you to see."

"Is it about the family's excruciatingly growing business? You know i hated going there..."

Christopher gritted his teeth, but kept his usual composure intact, "Father's orders. We'll take the early train tomorrow morning, and do not worry about your luggage. I will ask Benedict to pack for you."

"...Thomas is my valet, he can pack for me."

"Your valet only for tonight which was intentionally delayed a few minutes ago."

"What is with you, Christopher?! Ever since i got back home, you have never put up a warm welcome for me," Liam spat, his lips pursed together as his eyes flared in sudden rage.

How spoilt he was.

Oh, just how much he hated this new Liam. Be it that he received better quality of education than both him and Luke, it didn't mean he was far more superior - alter ego had controlled him, that one part of a human's painstaking nature. And had downgraded the others below him, including his own family.

Damn this secrecy.

"...What did you do to Thomas?"

Liam snorted in disbelief, "You are worried about a lowly servant rather than your own brother? How nice of you, Christopher! How about we take in the rest of the deadbeat and let them rule our own mansion! And let me rephrase your question, brother dearest. Have you ever thought of what Thomas did to me?"

That vexing smile he curved, somewhere in Christopher's mind - something snapped.

Shoving the youngest Hemsworth to a nearby wall, he seized him by the collar of his brother's shirt and shouted, "I may not know what happened between you two, but know this, Liam. If you ever as much as lay a finger on any of our servants again, see to it that i'll cut off your 'boy' down there. You hear me?!"

Despite that, Liam still had his sly grin plastered on his lips when Christopher released him.

"Except for Thomas... Did you know that he was never a servant to begin with? He was the one who approached me, didn't that cross your mind?"

But Christopher scoffed, above all the pride his little brother possessed, he still had one flaw that he wasn't aware of.

"You are a manipulative fool. But you forget that your bedroom walls are thin, brother. Just how easily your disgusting pride can crush you," he uttered, merrily taking in the agitated look on Liam's face as Christopher reached for the door handle, and slipped out of the room.

In his mind, he was now certain that he had to keep Liam away from his Thomas.

 

*

 

Silently creeping into the servant's quarters upstairs, he found that Thomas was not in his room. Checking every nook and cranny of the mansion, every possible hiding place for the footman to escape in - was to no avail. Thomas was nowhere to be found. His heart was at a dread, where had he disappeared to? Going down the stairs to the kitchen area, he noticed that the back door was set ajar. Through the few diamond-glass windows as he passed, he saw a familiar figure climbing up the metal gates and ran out into the garden.

It was Thomas.

Christopher grunted, "Damn...!" and turned his heels to chase after him.

Swiftly hauling himself over the gate, he landed safely on the ground and ran. Taking the stone steps in two, he heard the stuttering gasps and sobs of the footman he adored. It made his heart break to see him like this. Thomas had taken off his jacket, his vest and his tie, throwing them aside as he hurriedly escape. Passing Samuel's favourite shrubs a distance away from the mansion, Christopher shouted, "Thomas! Thomas, wait!"

He didn't know where Thomas was heading, as far as he knew, the end of this vast garden was the forest. 

"Leave me alone...!" he begged breathlessly, stumbling down to the ground when his foot was caught by a protruding root of an old tree.

He managed to grasp onto Thomas' hand and pulled him into his embrace regardless of the footman's exhausted struggle.

"No... L-Let go!"

"Please, please... Thomas. I'm here, i'm right here...! It's me, it's Christopher..."

Thomas froze.

"...I'm right here," Christopher breathed, as he panted tiredly.

Somehow this brush of forbidden love had crumbled down his trembling fears, giving him wanted strength to overcome them. But it would take him quite a long time to forget and to reciprocate entirely.

Then, his breath hitched.

 

And wept.

 

Christopher saved him, he did. But it ended up in further humiliation for Thomas - secret, secret, secret. More pain for the both of them. 

Thomas' body slumped against him as the two plopped down to the garden floor. Hands snagged to clutch onto his sleeves, burying his crying face on his shoulder whilst the tears soaked on his dinner jacket. Christopher hushed him, gathering him a bit closer as he winced at the tremors of Thomas' body. This young master's embrace was a good company, his hold was much gentler - but why did he feel that this kindness was not meant for him?

Christopher's hand rested at the back of his head, his face frowned in mixed sadness and rage, whispering assurances to the footman's listening ear. He kept a tight hold onto the man he loved, safe and sound in his arms.

He didn't ask Thomas of what had actually happened in Liam's room. Instead, he patiently waited until the cries finally quieted, and Thomas fell asleep.

 

*

 

Thomas woke up on his own bed the next morning; succumbed in terrible headaches, a painful jolt that shot up from his right foot and that dreadful abhorrence of what was about to happen last night - in this very mansion where he called home. He remembered running through the back door, climbing the gate as he ripped the nauseating articles that felt unyielding to his own skin. Liam's touches were sickening. He was overwhelmed with uneasiness and fear, until Christopher's embrace soothed him to calm. 

Thomas realised that he had intended to run away from everything, where did his sanctuary run off to?

"Did you sleep well?"

He startled, but was grateful enough that the voice belonged to Mrs. Russo. Her motherly gesture held onto his cold hand with a gentle smile on her face, and said, "You are exhausted, Thomas." 

Thomas tried to sit but soon regretted it, the immense pain banging in his head had tire him down. Mrs. Russo's hand pushed him back to rest on his bed, as she brushed the messy curls away from his forehead.

"Christopher told me what happened last night..." 

"...He did?" his voice croaked, and was ashamed of himself.

He was taken advantage of, but the world would always take the side of the supposedly guilty upper-class rather than the lowly victim. Thomas was about to shed a tear once more as the nightmares continued to pain him.

Worry had etched onto the housekeeper's face, as she poured him a glass of water which she had brought in to his small room. She sighed, "I know you missed your family, dear... But you don't have to run away like that."

Thomas frowned, that was not the reason why he ran... Was it? Christopher had made up a story about him, could it be possible that he knew what nearly happened last night? Was he angry? Disgusted? Would he still speak to him after all that happened?

"...C-Christopher," he stammered.

"Christopher brought you in when i was making my last check in the kitchen. The door was gaping, and the both of you were in a terrible mess. Samuel found your jacket and vest earlier, and... We realised something must have happened to you."

His lips quivered, he wanted to tell. He really did.

"...Did Christopher do anything to you?"

Thomas shook his head, hiding his aching face in his hands as he muffled his sobs. It was not Christopher, it was Liam.

 

*

 

Christopher glanced at his pocket watch, he groaned at the quickness of the foggy morning as he pinched the bridge of his nose in utter annoyance. He wanted to stay beside Thomas and wait for him to wake up, but his exhaustion caught him last night as he drooped down the kitchen floor with the footman in his arms - and spent his time weeping alone, he didn't know what to do. Mrs. Russo then found them just before midnight, and he was aware of the misunderstood look she had on her face of Thomas' missing jacket and vest, and his ripped trousers.  

Thankfully, Samuel was there to help him. 

Benedict handed him his black topcoat, as he waited along with his father and brothers at the train station - discussing their plans to protect their prominent family business. He and Liam would depart for Manchester to take care of their crumbling factory out in the busy city while their father and Luke would spend their time cutting down the worsening unrest in Oxford. 

Heeding the hissing steam, the crowds filling in and went into their respective units - respective classes - luggages loaded in one car as the first bell rang. Christopher waited until his father and brothers slipped into their rented compartment, and turned to face the waiting family's butler who stood by for their departure.  

"Thomas will be fine, master Christopher. I can assure you that."

He smiled tiredly, "Will you keep an eye on him then while i'm gone?" 

Branagh gave him a nod, understanding the young master's worry as he replied, "I will." 

Then, the second bell rang and the deafening noise of the steaming turbines echoed through the station. Christopher thanked him, turning his heels to enter his first-class unit as he heard the butler's voice behind him, "I wish for your quick return." 

Pausing on the step, Christopher noted on the saddening tone in the man's voice as he replied him, "Thank you."

Taking a seat beside his father who was busy writing down on his journal book, the elder brother who was captivated by the grand interior of the comfortable unit as Christopher ignored the scowl from Liam. An attendant then turned to secure the door and closed them with a slight push. His eyes met Branagh's as the butler and Benedict bowed at him, but there was a knowing sadness written on his face. 

Both of them were worried about Thomas' collapsing state of mind. 

 

*

 

Mrs. Nicol prepared him his late breakfast, something tasty, calming and something to fill his empty stomach. Thomas had spent a few more hours resting and sleeping on his bed after letting all of his sadness out to Mrs. Russo - but he was a coward to tell her his secret, and about last night. He was too afraid with the fact that Liam was also the son of the noble who took him in. Staring at his steaming bowl of chicken and mushroom porridge, and wrapped warmly in his blanket, Thomas sat quietly at the servant's dining area. The lovely chef said the porridge would cure any sickness, other than the medicine Branagh had given him.  

Thomas wanted to return to his work, helping the others out to clean, wipe, brush and sweep the huge mansion while Lady Leonie and Samantha were on a trip to visit a close relative. But the older servants wouldn't allow him to waste any more of his energy and told him to rest a bit more for the day.

Perhaps he could convince Samuel and take over his work for awhile, but thought that the old man wouldn't even bother to let him stay under the sun for long.

Thomas watched blankly at the scattering kitchen and laundry maids doing their chores, shifting his gaze to the glittering silvers that Benedict was cleaning beside him.

The older footman eyed him, and sighed, "Your porridge is getting cold." 

But Thomas ignored him, as he poked his spoon on the bits of chicken until they both heard a knock on the back door. A weary old man invited himself into the kitchen as he was greeted and welcomed by the chef herself and a few veteran servants who were present. Benedict looked up from the silvers and the rag in his hand, and called out, "Morning, Mr. Hopkins!" 

"Morning, Ben," the old man wrinkled a smile that reached his eyes, taking his hat off. 

"This is Thomas, he's the new member of the family. Thomas, this is Mr. Anthony Hopkins, the Hemsworth's retired butler," the footman joked as he introduced them with a slight gesture of his head.  

Reaching his hand out for the old man to grasp, Thomas forced a smile, "Pleased to meet you, sir." 

Taking hold of his arm, he shook them and frowned, "I see you are quite ill."

"A bit of a headache," Thomas chuckled hesitantly, gripping on the edge of the warm blanket. 

Hopkins then asked for a cup of tea when Mrs. Nicol offered him, and sat down on the dining area with the two footmen. Branagh and Mrs. Russo soon joined them, and Mr. Hopkins and the butler talked about how they both fare - complaining that he was acting like a father to all of the servants. They shared a good amount of time until lunch, as the servants waited for their stock deliveries from the market while Thomas silently ate his porridge. 

He felt hungry for honesty. He'd forgotten the last time he had ever laughed.  

The memories were so fresh in his mind, he couldn't stop them from reeling and replaying, again and again. The shivers returned to grace him coldly, his heart beating wildly against his chest - the others' laughs were fading away, but he remembered Christopher's warmth that had enveloped him from his greatest fear.  

How his body sagged and fit against the proud structure of the young master he loved, perhaps it would take them more than a week to see each other again. More than a week to say 'thank-you' or 'i'm-sorry'. But why was his heart felt so painful whenever he thought of Christopher's face.  

The dining area then quieted out, each of the servant had resumed their work upstairs except for Thomas to which both Branagh and Mrs. Russo refused to let him work or even lay a finger on a rag to clean. 

Stopping on his few swallows of porridge, Mr. Hopkins spoke to him, "You're a Hiddleston, aren't you? Thought i'd recognised your face somewhere." 

What...? 

"...Yes."

But there was no threat, no pity. Just relieved.  

"Do not worry, Thomas. I know your father, in fact he had asked me to look for you."

His eyes widened in shock, his father was searching for him? Despite everything that happened between them, and his whole banishment?  

"F-Father...?"

Mr. Hopkins nodded, sipping his English cup of tea and said, "And your mother too, is worried. Worried that whether you have a roof to cover your head, food to eat, health to take care of... I see you have the first two, but the third one's lacking a bit."

"...So you are aware of what really happened to me then. Why father disowned me...?" Thomas murmured, looking at the old man weakly as he gathered much of his courage to give the man a hint. 

"Your secret is safe with me, Thomas. I will never speak of it, but with an exception if it involves your safety, i will not hesitate to tell the others. Especially the good lord, for greater purposes..."

"Thank you..." 

Feeling the atmosphere tensing between them, Mr. Hopkins tried to cheer him up by complimenting on Mrs. Nicol cooking - saying that it was awful at first, hard to chew and swallow. He shared him the stories between him, Branagh and Mrs. Nicol - they were the best of friends since young, and they were still together. Incessantly trying to push away the dread of his memories by listening to Mr. Hopkins' interesting stories, Thomas forced yet another smile.  

But the old man saw through him, the burden of social classes affected Thomas the most. 

"You reminded me a lot of my son... He would be around your age by now." 

"...What happened to him, if you don't mind me asking." 

He smiled sadly, "He was caught in the Boer war... He always loved adventures, drawing pictures of things that caught his interest. He called all of his pieces, 'Liberations for the Poor'. Now, he wouldn't have to seek for his freedom any more."

Death.

"...I'm sorry, Mr. Hopkins." 

"We will have our own liberty one day, that i come to believe..."

But Thomas wondered which liberty Mr. Hopkins was referring to - freedom from the pains of the world and thus blessed with fortunes or freedom for death? 

 

*

 

Wearing Zachary's old pair of uniform while waiting Mrs. Russo to sew his, Thomas took his time finishing his chores. It would give him time to clear his chaotic head, no matter how heavy it was.  

Puffing out the pillows in the sitting room; he wiped the dusts from the frames of the family's pictures, replacing the used firewood in the fireplace after much persuasion from both Branagh and Mrs. Russo - thanks to Samuel who said let the boy work. Through the empty hallway of the second-floor on his way toward the grand double-staircase of the mansion, he paused in front of a proud portrait of Christopher.  

Sinfully elegant in his military uniform, his sword and the eyes that shared millions of stories.  

Thomas admired the painting, they looked the same. 

Christopher was such a handsome fellow.  

Friendly.

 

Gentle.

 

And warm.  

He remembered Christopher's soft whispers to him last night. 

_...whispering assurances to the footman's listening ear._

 

_"...Don't go. Don't run too far away from me... I don't know where to look if you're gone..."_

 

_He kept a tight hold onto the man he loved, safe and sound..._

 

A tear streaked down his cheek, as his vision on the young master's portrait blurred. Thomas rested his hand onto the picture, looking up to the beautiful blend pair of blue eyes as he mumbled to himself. 

"...I wonder if we're meant to be together, Christopher. You're the one who stood miles away from my reach..."  

Wiping the fallen tears with his sleeve, Thomas sniffed. Resuming his work as he stepped down on one of the golden staircase, with an empty bucket and a rag in his hands. Beside the separating wall, Lady Leonie stepped out from her hiding place and sighed. 

Her hands were folded in front of her, as she faced the portrait of her son, "...What have you gotten yourself into, Christopher."

 

*

 

He kept fiddling with his pocket watch, sliding the lid open and close. Christopher and his brother had just arrived to Manchester a few hours ago, seemingly in a foul mood as they both learned that the company there was perfectly 'still attached to the ground' at least. The brothers sat quietly in the sitting room of their uncle's estate, though the room was lavishly furnished - equal with those they had back home - the two of them were seemingly too detached to admire things they frequently see. 

Thomas' name echoed in his mind, how badly he wanted to see him. How badly he wanted to know how he fared. His uncle had asked him during lunch, if he was interested in getting to know a beautiful young maiden of a family friend. He glowered, he was never interested in arranged marriages.

Why couldn't he decide he own fate? 

"Would you stop that? It's annoying," Liam spat, as he referred to the irritating anxiety of the pocket watch. Throwing the newspaper he had been trying to read back to the coffee table. 

Christopher rolled his eyes, "Then would you stop glancing at me if it's so annoying."  

"Do not test me, dear brother." 

"I do not even have to pry and test your temper, baby brother," he rebuffed. 

Before Liam could sneak a punch on Christopher's face, their uncle's butler walked into the sitting room and reported, "My lord, there's a telegram from your father." 

"What did he say?" Christopher politely asked, keeping his composure. 

But the expression the butler wore on his face was never a good news. 

 

*

 

A few days later, Thomas visited the city again and spotted that nearly all of the shops had closed. The town looked rather empty without the noises of the crowds and cars, and instead, he went to Downey's Bar - realising that the bar was still open, but surprisingly empty for late afternoon. The sky outside had started to darken a bit, and wondered if he could make hope without getting his clothes soaked. 

Robert welcomed him with a smile and an acknowledging nod, serving him the same tea again but with a few crunches of mint leaves in a hot mug.  

"They're all up to Oxford i think, something terrible happened there the other day," the owner said, lighting a few candles near them.

"I hope it's nothing bad."

"I don't think so. If there is, somebody would have come and inform me about it a few hours ago. Especially Renner since he's the type to ramble a lot," he sighed. 

Thomas smiled, swirling his hot drink with a teaspoon Robert lent to him - watching the mint leaves floating, brewed tea mixing with the delicious home-made honey. It was a cure for flu, perhaps a good drink at a time like this. He hoped that it would heal him well, keeping in mind of what Mr. Hopkins had said about his health. 

He was never good at taking care of himself, he always prioritized the others. 

"...It was my wife's last drink," Robert started, looking at the awkward young man with a raise of an eyebrow. 

 

Last.

 

"...I'm sorry."

But the owner shrugged him off, "I just needed someone to tell me it still tastes good."

"It's heavenly." 

There was a change in the air, the smug look of the owner was no more - he'd noticed. His expression was replaced by somewhat saddening. 

He was wiping on a clean empty glass, when his eyes lowered to stare on the wooden panels of his bar and murmured, "I was a butler, and i fell in love with the mistress of the house. My love story used to be so perfect, but... It was not as perfect as i thought it would be." 

Perched on a barstool near Thomas, he reached for a bottle and poured himself a drink.

"...What happened then?"

"A man claiming to be the master's friend visited the house," Robert scoffed, gritting his teeth, "...I never should have left her with that foul lord. The next thing i knew, she was raped. That man disappeared and i sacrificed myself, took the blame. Her father banished her of her swollen belly, i took her with me and married her. I didn't care of what the others thought of me, about marrying a corrupted girl. But she died when giving birth, and the last thing she said to me was, 'the child may not be yours, but it's still human'. Her father then found out about her death. About how she was buried in an unworthy grave, and exiled me, separated me from my 'daughter'..."

Thomas didn't know what to say, why did he feel that he could compare himself with Robert's wife?

"...And they will never allow me to see her until she reach 18."

How harrowing it was to be a servant, how painful it was to sacrifice yourself for the one you love. That act of loyalty was truly rare, but always with a price. A price to whether lose your own life, or to live in bitter humiliation. Thomas wondered if he would sacrifice something for Christopher, but was Christopher really the person he was meant to be with?

There were so many obstacles between them, he started to think that it was impossible for him to slip through and reach the young master's welcoming arms.  

Robert gulped down his drink and sighed, "It's unfair, isn't it? That you can't decide things on your own. I've learned that life isn't something you can buy with just money. There's a lot of necessities out there that we're not allowed to have... And always, the necessities you're forbidden to reach for is what you wanted the most."

He paused, turning his head to the young man beside him, "...What is it that you truly wanted in this unfairness?"

"...What i wanted the most?"

Robert nodded. 

Then, Thomas caught a grasp of what he truly longed for - above all of the stories that he listened, the events that followed and faced him. Something where everybody had and cherished for, except for him.

He had no liberty.

 

No sweet ending nor beginnings. 

 

"...M-My story. I'm not allowed to have my own story... I fell in love with Christopher, and i'm not allowed to be... With him," he breathed. 

When Robert patted his shoulder, Thomas burst to tears.

 

*

 

It was raining by the time he walked out of Robert's empty bar, after the kind owner hushed him 'it's all right'. Aware that his and Robert's situation was more or less the same, he told him about his recent past in Oxford and about his family's _dark days_ \- and the bar owner promised to keep it a secret as a friend. Thomas didn't mind how cold his skin was by the time the rainwater seeped into his clothes, and realised it was already Autumn. His mind screamed at him to look for some-place warm, but he ignored his crying self.  

He felt that if he could stay in the rain forever, the water would cleanse him from all of his sins - strip him away from all of his tortures and cure his dreadful, wrecking heart.  

Then... 

"Thomas...!" a voice called him. 

When he stopped on his tracks on the empty, muddy road, he spun around and his breath caught in his throat. It was Christopher. He too was soaked, out of breaths, his soggy suit latched itself onto his skin - trailing to his proud built. It seemed like he ran out from the train station to chase him, and the route they were both taking were the farthest from the mansion.

The route where they both first begun this forbidden love.

"...Christopher..." Thomas murmured.

The young master panted as he brushed his loose hair to the back, squinting at the heavy rain that splashed onto his face. He shuddered lightly as he chuckled, "...We shouldn't be out here in the rain."

"You shouldn't have followed me..."

Christopher's beautiful smile slowly disappeared, as he walked to stand nearer to his darling. 

"I followed because you didn't hear me calling your name." 

It was heartbreaking. Why did he have to feel this way?

"...Why are we in love, Christopher?" he demanded quietly, looking into the cerulean eyes that frowned at him. 

"Whatever do you mean...?" 

"I'm a poor, wretched servant and you--" 

 He cut him off, "I don't care about that. Don't let it bother you!"

"Can't you see?! I can't...!" Thomas cried, gripping onto the curls of his hair - he felt himself growing insane. 

"Thomas..."

"We are in two different worlds, Christopher! We're too different! I am a man, even if i were a woman i would still feel hesitant about this 'love' between us--" 

Christopher held him by his wrists, releasing his tight grip on his hair as he shook him, "Thomas, look at me!" 

"...W-We're just too different."

"Then why do i love you if you said we're too different? I will never heed on what the others would think of me, would think of us being together. I cried for your pain, Thomas... I would feel sad whenever i didn't get to see your happy smiles. I feel left out..."

Tears had welled both of their eyes, in the rain, in the cold - was this a confession or a goodbye? 

"...I feel left out to know that you have kept so many secrets from me."

The freezing wind whistled, the silence between them was foreboding, Christopher's hands on his wrists would never be felt again. He was too exhausted to escape. No more secrecy. 

"...I am soiled, Christopher..."

"Soiled?"

"...I sold myself to disgusting riches before your father took me in. The first medicine i bought for my sister... is fouled by my own dirty earning." 

The warm hold had loosened and faltered, Christopher's eyes were wide in shock - his whole world crashed down on him. His ragged breaths escaped his throat, as he searched for any hints of lies and deception on Thomas' face, but found none.  

"...I am not as innocent as you thought i was. I-I am so... so s-sorry."

Thomas sobbed.

And when he didn't hear any reply from his once dear Christopher, Thomas bowed - avoiding his eyes. 

"Have a good day, young master..." his voice trembled, turning on his heels as he ran for... home.

 

*

 

The last glance he took, Christopher was walking back to the city - he was not chasing after him. This was what everything supposed to be, a servant must never fell in love with his master. When he arrived to the mansion, he discovered that Luke had came home injured due to the growing riot in Oxford. He was attacked, smacked, punched and kicked. The family's company there was burnt down to ashes, but luckily no one was caught in the fire. 

Benedict told him that the master went to Manchester to settle a few problems with Liam and had asked Christopher to go home and take care of the business here in London. The senior footman scolded him for his ruined clothes and quickly ushered him to change before Branagh asked Thomas to bring Luke's dinner to his chamber. 

Feeling a little light-headed again, he breathed. Rolling the cart toward the room occupied by the eldest of the Hemsworth brothers', he knocked lightly on his door and heard a voice calling him in. 

There he saw Lady Leonie and Samantha doting on the injured Hemsworth resting on his bed - bruises coloured his skin, bandages and stitched cuts - but he looked fine, at least. And that was somehow, was a relief. 

The mother hummed as she helped her son to sit on his bed, Luke groaned, "Please, mama... I'm already old."

"You, are full of nonsense. You're never old to my eyes," Leonie grinned, pinching her son's cheek.

"Your dinner, sir," Thomas cleared his throat, feeling nervous as he looked at the Lady exchanging glances with her mischievous in-law. 

Samantha rose from her seat, taking the cart from him, "Allow me."

"B-But, my lady--"  

And Samantha shushed him with a wink, rolling the cart near Luke's bed as Lady Leonie stood up and walked toward the stuttering footman. 

"Come have a talk with me, Thomas," she smiled, linking her arm with the footman as she pulled him to the nearby drawing room. 

Lit by only the sole golden chandelier on the ceiling, adorned by glittering jewels, portraits of paintings and pictures, Leonie sat on one of the sofa and patted on the seat next to her. Thomas followed her orders hesitantly, sinking onto the sofa beside her. 

She held one of his cold hands, and said, "Be honest with me my dear. You are in love, yes?"

"My Lady, I-I..." 

And she shut him with a stern look, he nodded.  

"Yes..."

"With Christopher?" 

Thomas bit his lip, "...Yes." 

Leonie sighed, her gentle hand rested on his cheek - her thumb lovingly stroked his cheekbone, admiring the gleam of the unique colours of his eyes. She beamed, "Do not worry, Thomas. This interesting endeavour is safe between Samantha and I. Perhaps it was Christopher's too."

"...I must have disgusted you, madam."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! It's normal for a person to fall in love, whether it's from the opposing gender or not. I think it's very adorable of you!" 

"But, i am just a lowly servant--"

"Is that why you're so depressed? About Christopher being an aristocrat and you're not? My dear, the world is never black and white... I know there are 'monsters' out there, i know the world is unfair. But it will eventually go away..."

"...You're not angry with me?"

Leonie shook her head, taking interest in Thomas' gracefully shaped fingers.  

She recalled, "Christopher is one of a kind, it has been awhile since he'd fallen in love. The last time he did was a few years ago, and she was a bitter liar. She betrayed him and ran off with a quarter of the family's money, married with another man." 

Her brows then furrowed sadly, fixing Thomas' crooked tie and brushed his unruly hair, "...And since you're here, Christopher has been all smiles. Please don't make him so sad..."

He breathed, "M-Madam... But i am made of secrets..."

She hushed him, this feeling - it was not pity. It felt like his mother's hand, that calmed and soothed him. Oh, just how much he missed her. 

"What about the shades of grey?" she whispered, kissing his temple before she allowed him to take his leave and return to his work. 

 

*

 

Past midnight, he had spent his time alone in the garden. Sitting below the tree where Christopher last embraced him, as he thought about what Lady Leonie had said to him and what he had said to Christopher. The shades of grey, she meant that not all would think poorly of him. There was always light to every badly composed stories and Thomas wondered when would it be his turn. 

Lamenting, he heard footsteps approaching him but he didn't bother to turn. His voice cracked, "I'm not tired, Samuel..."

But a hand grasped onto his mouth, muffling his bitter surprise as the stranger's voice droned.  

"You should have stayed in your bed."

 

Liam.

 

When did he come home?

 

His screams were muffled against the cold hand that shut him, as he was dragged along the dirt by the strong pull of the hands on his throat and mouth. Into the forest, the quiet and watching forest, so far away from the mansion - Liam planned to have his way with him. He bit onto Liam's palm, drawing blood as he kicked and struggled to escape. But where did his trousers go?

Liam hurled him down on the forest floor, raking his fingernails at his exposed lower half and ripping Thomas' shirt open. The footman cried, frantically trying to push this fouled young master away and scratched Liam's neck - earning a low, lustful moan. It was nauseating. A broad hand wrenched his head to a cold, sharp stone - laughing sinisterly at Thomas' weakened struggles.  

He could have sworn he heard the sound of a belt unbuckling. 

"Did Christopher already had a taste of you, Thomas? I'm sure you're still as tight as before! And don't worry, nobody will disturb us now..."

The forest was dark and eerie, it was blurry. He could feel something trickling down his cheek, his forehead was in an immense pain and just before the darkness could embrace him to unconsciousness - Lady Leonie's voice stopped him.

 

_'...Christopher has been all smiles. Please don't make him so sad..."_

 

And Christopher's...

 

_'...I don't know where to look if you're gone...'_

 

When he had regained back his senses, Liam was spreading his legs apart, about to thrust into him when there was a sudden burst of energy flowed and fuelled his blood. He struck Liam with a sharp punch directly on his face, knocking him to the side as Thomas quickly turned, bolting off and ran. He ignored the pain on his forehead, ignored the cold on how exposed he felt, ignored the thought of nearly being the victim of rape twice.  

And didn't spare a glance as he hid himself at the corner of his room, crying. Calling, and longing for Christopher. 

 

*

 

It was raining the next morning, the silence in the dining hall stretched at Liam's mysteriously bruised cheek and bust of his upper lip - he said he got into a fight with a friend back at Manchester. And the lord scolded him and said he skipped an important meeting just to see a friend? 

Liam scowled. 

The family then inquired about Christopher's sudden lack of appetite, but Leonie was aware that perhaps, it was because of Thomas' illness.  

"What's the matter, darling?" she said, cupping her son's cheek as she looked at him worriedly. 

Christopher smiled tiredly, placing his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin, "...Nothing, i just feel so exhausted. That's all."

He bowed down to his parents and left the hall. Leonie exchanged glances with Branagh and Samantha, as the family ate in silence. If Luke was fared finely and healthy, he would cheer this unwanted silence that lingered between them. With a grunt, Liam took his leave to begin his bruising day in London.  

Until... 

"My dear, Samantha and Branagh, please stay in this hall. The rest can leave us for a moment," the lord said, sipping on his morning coffee as he refused to look at the confused stares the others gave him.

But the servants obliged him, and Benedict spared Branagh a 'told-you-so' look before closing the door. Everything that had happened to Thomas was told to Leonie by the butler himself, so of course she felt a bit guilty. 

Clearing his throat, the lord tapped his finger on the table as he questioned, "Now, is there something i should know about?"

 

*

 

He sat in the silence of his own bedroom, overlooking the dull atmosphere, the sky of the view outside his window. Mrs. Russo told him that Thomas fell ill because of yesterday's drench in the rain, and that something dreadful had happened to him last night. Samuel had found him bleeding on the floor, there were tears on his shirt and his pants was missing. 

Christopher had suspicions that it was Liam, but he didn't have enough evidence to blame entirely on him. 

He groaned, rubbing his face with his palms as his door swung open. Leonie came in, and softly asked, "How are you feeling, darling?" 

"Mama..."  

"You should take a rest," she whispered, taking a seat beside him on his bed. Tucking loose strands of his hair behind his ear as he shifted to rest his head on her shoulder.  

He breathed, "...Why is it that whenever i fell in love, i'll get wounded so badly?"

"By whom?" she asked, faking an innocent tone in her voice.  

Christopher puffed, "...No one."

"Is it Thomas?" she hummed, and smiled when she felt her son tensed.  

She nuzzled on his hair, kissing her son's forehead, "My sweet, sweet Christopher... Young people in love always see things at only one point. Perhaps, you should widen your view about this forbidden love. Question your thoughts, then you will find the answer. How? It'll come from only you. Why? Because Thomas..." she paused, and raised her son's face up to look straight to her eyes, "...Because Thomas is waiting for you to accept him fully for what he is."

"...But what about his secrets? I couldn't--" 

Leonie stopped him by pinching on both of his cheeks, though it was adorable to see her son like this - she never wanted to hear any of the said secrets. She would prefer being told by the person himself rather than through gossips and wails.

"Secrets are always painful for us to hear, and for him to say. But it took courage to tell, and he told you himself, no? Darling, there is always a reason..." she slipped first-class tickets onto his hand as she continued when Christopher gaped, "Your father is sending you down there to clear up your head, while i allowed you to go there to clear your distraught heart." 

He counted and frowned, "...You gave me two." 

Leonie curved a sly, yet beautiful smile, "I did."

Catching on his mother's plan, Christopher gleamed at her. 

"...M-Mama." 

Kissing his forehead, she rose up, and walked toward the door. She paused to advise him for a bit more, "Mrs. Russo told me his illness is not that worse, he'll be fine by tomorrow. Don't be so sad, darling... Listen to Thomas' story, then you'll understand." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, it was rather fast-paced. More dialogues. Like Shakespeare's, but more of an amateur writing. 
> 
> *laughs* 
> 
> ...Haa.
> 
> I was in a middle of something when writing this out, do forgive me if there's something lacking in this chapter.


	5. Sketches of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N :: Pardon my poor writing this fic is not beta'd yet [ i'm starting to think this story will never get beta'd xDD ] - English is not my first language, i'm afraid. 
> 
> Hello, again! And so, thanks for your patience. But i kinda want to blame myself, you know? I lost my original draft for this story, and it took me quite awhile to make a new one as quick as i could because i'm in love with this baby same like you guys. Unfortunately, i've forgotten most of the scenes, and my mind's all crumpled up to think of a fresher draft that would suit the storyline. But i'm satisfied with this hundred percent :DD 
> 
> I've made some changes especially in Chapter One, but you may ignore them if you want. I can assure you that i'm very thankful that i have such amazing readers, and i couldn't express these thanks through words alone. Once again, thank you so much to everyone! Love ya! Oh, and... There are a few more chapters to go! The climax is just around the corner! Ooh! <3

Thomas' fever was running even higher than last night.

 

His body limped exhaustedly and was covered in sweat, his temperature was rising by the minute perhaps due to the chilly weather - Mr. Hopkins was right, he did have trouble taking care of his own health. Times like these, he remembered that his mother would tend to his sickness. How much he missed her motherly embrace and the kiss on his forehead. His eyesight was blurry and the ache in his head banged painfully against his skull. Yet, he was quite pleased that his recent injuries felt rather numb. Benedict then woke him from his restless sleep, asking him if he wanted to eat but he sorely declined and shook his head.

 

Benedict sighed quietly, testing his young friend's burning temperature on his forehead. He frowned, "Thomas, i need to clean you up, all right? Can you sit for me?"

 

Thomas blinked tiredly. Whimpering at the throbbing ache that weighed heavily when Benedict carefully pulled him to sit on his own bed. His head lolled - he couldn't think, he couldn't dream - as he rested against Benedict's shoulder, breathing sharply when he felt both hot and cold. It was a torture.

 

Spotting the bandage on Thomas' forehead and the tremors of his young friend's body. He curled an arm around Thomas' shoulder, gathering him protectively and said, "...Would you lie, my young friend, if i ask what really happened to you?"

 

His stomach churned and spewed when last night's memory came to mind - the forest, the assault... Liam. Thomas swallowed weakly, he replied, "...Nothing... Nothing happened."

 

"Why are you hiding from us? Are we not your friends? Your family...?"

 

"...I have lost the courage in me, Ben... I don't think i could..."

 

Thomas was already nodding off when waiting for Mrs. Russo, as he trusted the small comfort from a friend who sat beside him in patience - the easing hand that was placed on one side of his face, hushing him to try to stay awake. The gentle housekeeper then came to his room with a bucket of water, a towel and Branagh's first-aid kit, as both the senior footman and the housekeeper exchanged glances - he silently reported to her that Thomas still refused to tell them his true story.

 

Mrs. Russo was taking a bottle of iodine, a fresh bandage and a cotton wool out from the kit, before soaking the towel with water and wrung them dryly. Benedict in the meantime, helped the young footman undress; shedding his shirt painfully and blindly letting his friend peel off his pants. Kind hands wiped his burning, sweaty skin - with envious care over his injuries, and the slight sting when the cold graced him. Benedict frowned, there were a lot more contusions scattered all over his body, some looked rather recent especially the ones inside his thighs. Most of the discolouration of Thomas' skin looked quite old, but it remained there scarred instead of healing.

 

Benedict tucked out a new pair of shirt and pants from Thomas' dresser, noticing that he looked staggeringly tired when Mrs. Russo was trying to hold him in place. She was cleaning the bruising wound on his forehead just above his right eye, the gruesome colour of the swell stretched down his temple and cheekbone. Worry and sadness sketched over her face, when she swabbed the cotton wool with iodine onto disinfect the tear of skin.

 

Thomas winced.

 

He couldn't go to the hospital, as it might rise the notion of mistrust and suspicion from the lord of the house who was unaware about what had happened - except for the lady and her daughter in law - and that Thomas didn't require any stitches. Though the gash looked painful enough. Patching a fresh bandage on the wound, Mrs. Russo started to wonder more about Thomas.

 

Before the lord found him in the city, or perhaps before he left home - there was that huge gap of unexplored mystery that Thomas never told either her, Benedict nor Samuel.

 

Thomas warily took his clothes from Benedict, and awkwardly slipped into his clothing. There was a need written on his face, the need to cover himself from something rather 'terrifying', as if the fright was from the invisible stares of his room. But she didn't know what made him so afraid, there was no one in the room except for Benedict and herself. Benedict helped the young footman to rest himself on his bed, his back facing them as Mrs. Russo took his bloodied and damp pair of clothes to be washed and dragged Benedict out from the room to let Thomas sleep a bit more.

 

When the door shut quietly, he shivered at his sheer loneliness. And sobbed. Hugging his blanket closer, he was desperate for an escape from the nightmares that kept haunting and torturing both in his wake and sleep. That was what terrified him the most, no sense of liberty in himself and his perturbed mind.

 

Then, a grudging voice in his memory left him in cold sweat.

 

_"Beg! You little slut!"_

 

_Thomas had lost the track of time, he didn't know what they had put inside of him. It felt painfully cold, hard and solid. It was tearing him, he cried at the sight of his own blood trickling down between his legs. The drowning alcohols they poured and splashed onto his trembling skin, he was dirtied - of mud, sweat and semen. This was a living nightmare. He was tricked by none other but the class far more dominant than his. There were echoes of deafening laughs, the claps, the whistles and the irritating drunks. He'd forgotten how many of those men had taken him all at once. Yanking on his hair, on his limbs as they forced themselves into a body smaller than theirs._

 

_The sound of the loud cackles remained blaring in his ears when they watched him cry, when he screamed in pain. He never felt any sort of pleasure in this work, he would never again feel the innocence he once had. When he thought the dread of living hell ended, the man who tricked him had stayed behind. Circling him like a hungry vulture, delving his eyes into the tattered skin of his prey and tilted his head to sneer at him when he crouched down._

 

_The supposedly perfect first impression was never there. There was no remorse in those vexing pair of eyes._

 

_And that cross-shaped pin was the first Thomas looked at, as a remembrance of the man who led him into this darkness._

 

_"I would have given you the money, but you've failed to satisfy my friends..." he faked a pout as he brushed Thomas' damp curls from his forehead._

 

_Thomas wanted to scowl, but he felt startlingly dead._

 

_"You think i didn't know you? Of which family you come from? It starts with an 'H' and ends with an 'N'," the man sneered, taking in the delight of Thomas' gasps._

 

_"You recognised them, didn't you? Weren't they once your... Friends? The seemingly good influence of people turned out to be hungry, lusty young men who raped a person quite older than they are. The person who happens to be their childhood brother... In just one night. In this warehouse where no one could hear you. I pity you, it seems like they've forgotten about you or perhaps they didn't care," he said, his eyes beamed brightly when he raised Thomas' chin up. "But i shall make it an honour to help this beautiful 'whore' to forget everything that he had seen."_

 

_"...N-No..." his voice croaked._

 

_The man hushed, biting on Thomas' ear, "Would you allow me to remember you once i leave you for dead?"_

 

_Then, a new string of painful violation began again._

 

_Thomas was trembling. He could still feel the pang, the sting and the ache that shot through his whole body._

 

_And he cried._

 

*

 

Christopher was skimming through the rows of books in his shelf, studies and researches about the complexity of a human's mind and the various editions of astounding philosophy. He tried his hardest not to think about Thomas - but failed miserably. He sighed, grunted, frowned and scowled. Christopher's mind was in a clutter, restlessly flipping on the pages of a book that deemed boredom to his eyes. The young master was still dressed in his dinner suit, he had left the dining room earlier - unable to overpass the obvious absence of the footman he loved. Of the footman who deceived his honest love - or so he thought. The food was tasteless to his tongue, the drink felt like dusts when swallowed, and the heightened worry had threatened his sanity. He was told not to heed the first impression he'd thought of when Thomas told him his secret - a _whore_ \- but his mother told him, that there was always a reason behind everything the footman had done.

 

But what was it?

 

Crashing on to his chair, he released a long sigh as his sorrowful eyes glanced at the tickers his mother bought for him. Tickets to France that rested enviously well on his table. Until a memory came to him...

 

_'...Except for Thomas... Did you know that he was never a servant to begin with?...'_

 

It was an overlapping statement, the answer could be many things. Christopher pondered, was Thomas once an upper-class too before he landed to his current state? If so, then what happened to his family? What made him so isolated from the world?

 

Only then did Christopher realise, he never knew Thomas' surname. He groaned, hiding his contorted face in his hands as he held his spurring anger and grief. He blamed himself for coming too late to Thomas' life, damning himself that he lacked the knowledge of his darling's past. And that his brother had the superior advantage of controlling Thomas' fright and his whole story.

 

Then there was a knock on his door as Benedict, his valet, invited himself in and asked, "Are you ready for bed, young master?"

 

"...Yes," Christopher huffed, rising from his chair and walked toward his mirror.

 

He began unbuttoning the choking studs on his shirt as his valet took out a pair of his sleeping clothes from his dresser. Helping the young master tucking out from his dinner jacket and vest, revealing the proud structure of his built dimmed of war experience and intelligence. Benedict the footman, had been Christopher's valet since the young master was still a child - the servant was like a brother to him. All of the servants downstairs were like his second family, but he wondered why he didn't think Thomas as a family the first time he saw him.

 

Lady Leonie always reminded him that if he thought differently about a person, where his heart was fluttering and yearned for more, then it was a brush of true love. Christopher did feel it that way, but what about Thomas? Did Thomas question himself like what Christopher was doing right now?

 

"...How is Thomas, Benedict?"

 

"He is resting in his room, sir. There has been so many things that happened to him as of late. We are worried about him..."

 

"I am too."

 

Most of the servants knew about Christopher's affection toward Thomas, they were kindly supportive and said what they possessed between them was a challenging love story. And they spoke the truth, this love was never easy - there were so many deceptions, untold secrets and lies.

 

"Did he tell you what happened?"

 

Benedict shook his head, handing Christopher's sleeping shirt and said, "Not entirely... The only thing he said to me this morning, and i quote, 'i have lost the courage in me'. I even notice some bruises on his skin when we were cleaning the dirt and the blood on him."

 

"Bruises?" Christopher frowned as he halted, looking at Benedict's reflection on the mirror. "I'm afraid i do not know where it came from, some looked shockingly recent and old. And just a few hours ago, Samuel found Thomas' clothes in the forest nearby. All were ripped and there was also a streak of blood. We figured a rabid dog, but the bruises didn't explain anything."

 

"...Why was he in the forest?"

 

"There were footprints on the mud and a stretching trail from the garden... Someone was with Thomas last night, sir and we fear--"

 

Benedict's voice quieted, separated from his lines of thoughts. There was a brush of coldness that had entered his heart. Was Thomas raped?

 

The next morning, during breakfast, his father told him that he had sent Liam away to America to settle the family's silver mines there and gave Christopher the rest that he needed. Patting on his back, telling him to savour his moments in France in peace. Christopher felt grateful of his father's understanding, but he didn't seem to know why his son was in such a depressing state. Ambling toward the family's library, he watched the servants doing and done their works dutifully; bowing their heads when he passed them by as they continued cleaning every splotches of dirt and dusts, changing the curtains, puffing the pillows in the sitting room, replacing the firewood. And yet, the face that he longed to see was nowhere in his sight.

 

Thomas was still in his room.

 

Christopher went through a sleepless night, his thoughts kept wandering to the unpleasant images of Thomas writhing, struggling, crying and the pleas for his help. He figured it was Liam who was with Thomas the other day, and the thought put him in a rage. Seeking comfort, he would spend his morning in the library of his family's mansion, hiding between the huge bookshelves and pretended reading - like he always did as a child whenever he couldn't think of a solution to solve a huge problem like this. Especially in terms of love, he was too innocent, easily fooled the last time he fell in love. However, there was another reason why he resorted to the library.

 

Thomas' room was just right above him.

 

His mind lingered to the tickets he had slipped in his pocket, he had to catch the train today - late afternoon. And he hadn't even try to ask Thomas yet. Christopher continued to question himself, why was he even doing this? Was it for Thomas or for himself despite everything that happened between them? Would he still accept Thomas? With that, he wasn't sure.

 

*

 

It was half past ten by the time Samantha visited him in the library. With a tray of biscuits and hot tea, dressed in her brown gown with her hair in a loose braid, she spotted her brother in law looking at his grandfather's portrait. The man in the picture looked elegantly posh, graceful and wise - dressed in his military uniform, medals and spikes adorned his clothes. The Hemsworth family descended from an elite lineage, their reputation with the world was intense and the name had to be respected by each member.

 

Christopher too was a soldier, and the last he had fought in was the Boer war. But at the same time, he was to inherit the family's business, after Luke had found and made his say in his interest in medicine and literature while Liam didn't seem to care much of the empire unlike his brother. It would be a huge burden if he were to accept it, and he would prefer some help rather than running the empire alone.

 

Placing the tray on top of a low-table, Samantha cleared her throat as she sat on the couch in the library, "You are wondering about your heritage, aren't you? The Hemsworth's name is quite proud and has a lot of leadership qualities."

 

He curved a small smile, his eyes admired the elegance of the portrait, "That is what father always say..."

 

She nodded, "Hmm, but then you started to wonder. Once you take over father's place, who will take over yours when you've grown old. You should really just go and ask Thomas right away if you want to get out!"

 

Christopher groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose when a terrible headache broke into his head.

 

"It's not as easy as you think... I am caught in between, dear sister. Father didn't know about my 'sexual' interest, mama's been telling me that it's all right to fall in love with a man. And then, you started to remind me of the things i will never have whether i marry someone or not!"

 

"...Just follow what your heart tells you to do," she said, pouring tea for Christopher and herself as she glanced at her brother in law who was plopping down on the opposite couch in front of her. He was crumpled in distress.

 

"I told you, this kind of problem is not easy to deal with. And you don't know half of the story." Sipping onto her tea, she shrugged, "It is never hurt to tell me, right?"

 

"It is for me," he replied, he looked depressingly defeated. "I hate myself for not having the courage... Perhaps, Thomas was right after all. That we're just too different."

 

The cup clinked against the saucer when Samantha looked up from her tea, she was aware of the sadness that haunted her brother's mind and eyes. She sighed, "Mama told me about Thomas the other day, she saw him admiring your portrait outside. And you want to know what he said?"

 

Christopher raised his head to her, the sketches of wonder and yearning written on his face and she smiled. "He said, ' ...I wonder if we're meant to be together. You're the one who stood miles away from my reach...'. Somehow that sounded quite ironic to what you're feeling and thinking about right now, yes?"

 

His shoulders slumped, sometimes he envied his sister in law for having the wits in these kind of relationships.

 

"Christopher, Thomas is up there wondering and trying to answer the same questions like you. And i couldn't help but wonder... His past is more dreadful than what his words to you seemed to be."

 

"...How can you tell? From just listening, you can already see that through him?"

 

Samantha curved another smile, her eyes glittered in assurances and said, "One is always compose of many stories. You have those stories in you, i have mine. Thomas have his. We listen to them, like what you did but you are not aware of it. You started to wonder, because you can see their pain. You can see Thomas' pain. You may not like what i am about to say, but frankly... Thomas has been honest with you. As he did with mama."

 

*

 

His fever had lessened, he was healing. He was sure that he would be able to work tomorrow. Thomas was still in his sleeping garments when Christopher came to his room around midday with the worried look on Mrs. Russo's face and the panic in Benedict. Thomas couldn't bear to stare nor look at his once darling's face, with bitter shame and humiliation of the news of his 'sickness' that had arrived to the young master's ears.

 

And Christopher flatly said, "I'll be running a few errands in France for a few months. And i'll be taking you with me as my valet."

 

Despite the obvious refusal from both the housekeeper and the older footman, Christopher calmly silenced them with his mysterious stare, and repeated, "France, him, my valet. Get ready before 4."

 

"B-But, young master--!"

 

Thomas weakly watched the young master leaving his room, before he hung his head low. The paleness of his skin remained, the tone of his once sweetheart's charming voice was no longer the same - now it sounded cold and unforgiving. And that was the resolution of this unwanted love, the love he had for Christopher ended with guilt and disgrace. Regardless of the harshness of the young master's words seemed to be, Thomas would still harbour honest feelings for him and would forever remain in the shadows.

 

He would ask himself, why? Because nobody ever wanted to be with a soiled body.

 

Mrs. Russo sat beside him on his bed, wounding her arms around him as the young footman buried his face on her shoulder. Her soothing hand patted on his back, and murmured, "Do not worry, dear child..."

 

"I'll help you pack your clothes. Really, i will never understand what that boy was thinking. He should have realise that you're still ill!" Benedict spat as he opened one of Thomas' drawers.

 

"Oh hush, Benedict. Young master Christopher knows what he's doing," the housekeeper answered him, glaring at the older footman.

 

"If so, then let us hope that he will never leave Thomas lost in France, shall we?"

 

Tears were already welling on the corners of his eyes. Crying silently, his face was hidden. He felt terribly hopeless, a baggage of burden weighing on someone else's shoulders. It certainly felt like Christopher was planning to leave him in a country so excruciatingly foreign to him.

 

*

 

That same afternoon, the sky was grieving and dulling with shrouded grey - the daylight was shadowed by thick clouds heavy with tears, threatening to bring storm as the season turned chilly. His steps were heavy, his head was aching. Despite all of his sickness' pain, Thomas forced himself to act healthily especially with the presence of the kind Lady Leonie who went along to see them off. But she had seen through his difficulties, and favoured him forget whatever he was doing to please her as no one but the lady who helped him.

 

At the crowded train station, with their few luggages being carried into the loading car, they waited for the chiming bells and the bellows of the attendant. Branagh and Evans stood by him and told Thomas that he would be fine and his health would gradually heal. Thomas compared himself with the young master who stood by his mother, anyone could differ a man through his clothes - the pride where the back straightened, head held up high and the eyes that see miles and miles away. And Thomas lacked in these attributes that Christopher possessed, he was aware that he had them once, but not any more.

 

Lady Leonie was saying goodbye to her son by the time the first bell rang. People passed them by, rushing into their respective units following their classes as the lady walked toward the unwell young footman.

 

"Everything will be fine, now. Trust yourself, trust Christopher," she said, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone, kissing his cheek.

 

Thomas quickly said his goodbyes to his lord's lady when the second bell rang, as the attendant called, "All aboard!"

 

His headaches continued to cloud and swim through his visions, and he slowly walked through the crowds - forgetting where and when was the last moment he saw Christopher. Lady Leonie, Branagh and Evans were no longer behind him. Through the deafening noises of crumbling voices, the bellow, the incessant bumps of his shoulders, and the hissing steam - his mind was threatening to break.

 

"...C-Christopher...?" he gasped, his steps staggered to a halt as he searched frantically for a familiar face.

 

He felt left out, abandoned. He started to think that all of the kindness that was given to him, was a fake. Everything was a sheer façade, a part of Liam's plan. He was disowned, yet again.

 

"...D-Don't leave me... Christopher...C-Chris--"

 

Then, a hand grabbed his elbow and a familiar voice jolted him back, "Thomas!"

 

There he was. Christopher, with his usual worry frown and the pursing lips. Thomas was trembling, a part of him felt glad that Christopher was still there but another part of him screamed that he should have been left behind and never be found. Thomas tried to shake off his thoughts - they were never real, it was just a part of his dreadful and confused subconscious. The young master then led him to their unit, holding his hand tightly through the crowd as he ignored the stares of the bystanders - the middle cubicle, the first-class unit was their's. As Christopher quickly shut the door behind them.

 

"Sit down," Christopher told him, and the frightened footman immediately complied.

 

As all of the doors were locked, the engines rolling and the steam hissing - the train finally moved and embarked to their destination. The young master pulled out his journal and plopped down to the opposite seat, he sighed, "There will be a number of errands that we must do, and i expect you to be in a good health by the time we arrived."

 

He could feel the warmth of Christopher's hand linger in his shivering grasp, though he still felt cold.

 

"Y-Yes, young master..." Thomas breathed, trying his best to calm himself down as he had just experienced his first panic attack.

 

Shedding out of his topcoat, Christopher spoke - trying to lift off the tensing and awkward atmosphere between them, "Benedict told me... Of your bruises."

 

Please, no more questions...

 

"I-It is something that i've inherited, sir... Iron deficiency--"

 

"What happened to you last night? Samuel found your clothes in the forest, ripped. And your wound... Your illness. Did Liam do anything to you?" he pressed on.

 

"...Please, sir, i-i--"

 

"Thomas."

 

Christopher knelt before him, taking both of his hands as the cerulean pair met the blended colours of green, grey and blue. The colours that showed so many hidden stories that the young master yearned to discover, the colours that flaunt hundreds to thousands of emotions where all of the composed stories were locked.

 

And hidden.

 

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again, "I will never stop asking you, Thomas. I want to help in any way that i can, even if you say no. It does not matter to me what the others might think of us, i have accepted your past. I want to share your pain, and i can see right through you. So please... Please, i beg of you, Thomas. Let me listen..."

 

The footman was caught in his shock, he couldn't respond.

 

"Thomas...?"

 

Was this the moment he had been waiting for? He could have sworn he heard something breaking - his box of secrets, the reason why he ended up in this torturing life come spilling all of its contents to the tip of his tongue. But to seek for closure, he had to face back his past and learn where his story had gone wrong.

 

There was a thought in him, perhaps Christopher could save him.

 

Thomas pursed his lips together, as his voice quivered, "...I was once a part of a wealthy family, my mother owned a lot of elite businesses all over the world. My father, a hospital. Until one tragedy struck us bare."

 

The idea that Thomas was once an upper-middle class was right. Christopher felt relieved, somehow. But no matter which ladder Thomas was in, Christopher would always love him - as he had vowed a few days ago.

 

"...What happened?"

 

Though, there was sadness etched on his beautiful expression.

 

"My sister, Emma... she was raped."

 

"...What?"

 

"...She was raped by those i call my _friends_ , their fathers' were my father's colleagues. They dismissed him, tricked my mother's treasures and left us in poverty. They even poisoned Emma as a threat to never mention this secrecy to anyone. They left her crippled, we managed to save her but the poison left her ill instead..."

 

To all of the stories Thomas had listened thus far, now he understood why everything could be compared to his - his past was the origin of all hatred, branched into smallest of parts. "For years my father kept his family alive through borrowed money, just to keep us safe. He owed especially to Mum Carter, a brothel owner who told me that i could earn money through selling my body in Oxford. So, i did."

 

Christopher gritted his teeth, it was hard to listen. "I've spent six days submitting to men who left me worn and soiled. But it was all for Emma, it was all my fault and i couldn't find any other work. My father's enemies blacklisted us from working... I've nearly accepted my fate, until your brother came."

 

"Liam...?"

 

"He knew me, he knew my parents. He knew what i wanted...! He promised to pay me enough money to buy Emma's medicine. But he tricked me... Along with the sons of my father's 'friends', saying that i'm just a disgusting waste in this world of being a queer on the street," Thomas' voice faltered, holding his tears.

 

The young master had his hand settled on Thomas' cheek, brushing the cheekbone, wiping the watery pearls that fell from the corner of his eye as he watched the unique pair of eyes open. The colours were brightly glistened with tears and the tinge of redness that formed.

 

"I told my family days after, and my father disowned me. I met the lord after that, and when i thought everything was going on so well... My nightmares came back to haunt me. And i hesitate... To fall in love with you. But you will never believe me... I'm just a lowly creature, aren't i? I'm capable of lying..."

 

Christopher snapped, "Stop belittling yourself! You're never a low-born, you have never lied! You are honest... Because it's me." Cupping Thomas' cheeks, he added, "Because you're with me."

 

Thomas shook his head in disbelief, "...No."

 

"Thomas, i've learnt what it meant to listen to other's stories. Different prespectives from just a view i never knew. It took me a long time, yes, but i've finally understood. You've widened my world. Share me all of your pains, let us face this together."

 

"Please, no..." Thomas wept, placing his hands on top of Christopher's, gripping them tightly as if he was begging for Christopher to let him go.

 

"...I love you," the young master hushed and then smiled, resting his forehead against the footman's, "And i will never stop loving you. I will be forever with you, and i will never let you go."

 

*

 

It was a long journey, passing through villages and cities from London down to Hampshire station, they continued their short adventure to Sussex and would pass the borders to France by ship. They ignored the strange looks from the passer-bys when they noticed the sheer intimacy between two men - the disgusted look that it was not normal, as it was against their society. But each individual was shaped by themselves, led to be whoever they wanted and the society had no right to say what deemed unnecessary.

 

Both Thomas and Christopher had reconciled with tight embraces, the hushes and the cries, the whispered assurances and the kisses they had missed. They both too, promised that they would always be together no matter what.

 

Come midnight, in their first-class cabin on the ship called, 'Ensoleillé Rose', the two lovers resorted to savour their rest after many hours trapped in a train as they lay on their bed, gazing into the depths of each other's eyes, thumb stroking one of his puffed cheek and Christopher's sweet kiss that was pressed on his forehead. There was that brush of freedom, Thomas felt, now he understood the 'liberation' that Mr. Hopkins' son was searching for.

 

The night was raining, they could hear the thunderstorm drumming against the metal layers of the ship's walls when Thomas moved to straddle on his young master.

 

"Thomas?" Christopher whispered, raising an eyebrow at this sudden need.

 

Thomas took a deep breath before placing a hesitant kiss on Christopher's lips. Not a few seconds after, his hand shifted to the back of the footman's head - deepening the kiss, earning a sweet moan from his lover.

 

When they pulled away, breathless, there was uncertainty shimmering on Thomas' expression as they kept their eyes onto each other.

 

"...Are you sure?"

 

Lips brushing against his jawline, breaths that breathed on his ear and the hand that roamed on his back and the grip on his thigh. Thomas whimpered, nodding his head slowly, "Take me."

 

"Thomas..."

 

He took Christopher's face in both hands, his lips ghosting against the young master's. He murmured quietly, "Please, make me yours. I'm dirtied... Mark me, make me clean."

 

There was a fire burning inside of them, this cleansing closure, this gloom. Searching for any doubts sketched on the footman's face, he found none. There was only the need to be 'purified'. And Christopher brought his lover's face down and kissed him softly on the lips.

 

He breathed, "I shall."


	6. Black Horse, the Diamond and the Silver Part-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, let us focus on the enemies' storyline, shall we? 
> 
> 'Black Horse, the Diamond and the Silver' will be divided into three parts due to author's focus that tends to wander off and eventually lead to obscurity. To me, dialogues are the best. So be warned for there will be a lot of talking. French is not my forte.
> 
> Unbeta'd as usual.
> 
> These are how i pictured them ::
> 
> For Thomas, it's perfect! xDD He looks so innocent! :: http://tomhiddlestononline.net/gallery/albums/userpics/10002/01~103.jpg
> 
> For Christopher, somethin' like this? I love the eyes, and the hair *winks* :: http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/10/15/article-2461732-18C1DAD800000578-563_634x913.jpg
> 
> And for Liam, clean shaven, all secretive? Check! :: http://www.disneydreaming.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/Liam-Hemsworth-Interview-Magazine.jpg

He remembered the pungent smell of musty raw diamond and rough silver, the galling weight on his hands and the alluring shine that stared widely at him. And he regretted, being engulfed in the tempestuous seduction of nature's jewels which resulted in the downfall of a good friend.

 

"I do apologise for my ill-timed rudeness, my lord Hemsworth. London is really, not the best setting to settle these kind of arrangements... Regardless the time," sighed a gentleman, combing his hands through his stack of thick documents in his safe. "Ah! Here we are!"

 

The mysterious murk of the night in the gloomy city of Lancaster seemed foreshadowing through the eyes of the noble Craig Hemsworth. He frowned at the heavy bargain placed in front of him, the unwarranted gift supposedly owned by someone - a good friend - and the vexing grin that curved on the well-known shareholder's face. The lord warily scanned through the pages of the given document; the rates remained high, investments wagered in a number of colonies were stabled miraculously after years of abandonment. And his brows furrowed at the name stated before closing the written records, and signed their agreement.

 

The handed document was to be his, including every contents of the declared wealth. Through every succession, there would always be a price.

 

The sneering shareholder, too, signed the agreement. Humming delightfully as he stamped his seal on their contract, folded the paper and slipped them into an envelope to be seen as the sole evidence if things gone wrong. It was carefully locked away it his safe, and the lord's mind was twisting. Guilt was taking over him, yet again.

 

Observing the vast study, despite the numerous bookcases glued to the walls - the room was filled with suspicious wooden chests, and each was labelled as either ' _D_ ' or ' _S_ '. The wooden sides were painted in pungent oil and brown paint. Most were covered in dirt and dusts, smashed locks and splinters at the four-ends of its base. Why would he store them here instead of the man's usual storage?

 

"I hear the Empress is commissioning you as Marquis, my lord. I have to congratulate you with a drink," he smiled, settling himself on the seat in front of the distant lord.

 

Lord Hemsworth was to be entitled the rank of Marquis by the Empress herself, tentatively after Christopher left for France and that tomorrow would be his grand ceremony. Despite every good blessing, he knew the promotion was not meant for him. Noticing the smirk on the gentleman, the lord was alarmed that he was dealing with a dangerous man - the shareholder who possessed countless of dirty tricks up on his sleeves. He politely declined for the drink, and spoke, "What game are you playing, Mr. Wilkinson?"

 

Eyeing the mass of wooden chests in his study, the gentleman named Wilkinson turned his attention to the suspecting Marquis who was glaring at him.

 

"Dear sir, i can assure you that i haven't planned any ridiculous games. _Yet_ ," he calmly pointed, and hummed, "But i do have something to present you in exchange for the drink."

 

Rising from his seat, he walked to a nearby chest marked ' _D_ ' where its colour was opposing beige rather than brown. Presenting a small rectangular case to the noble Hemsworth, Wilkinson cheered, "I acquaint you, Lancaster's best investment."

 

The lord was shown raw, and most tempting uncut diamonds. He picked up a few diamond like pebbles, admiring their dull shine as its pixels reflected against the lights of the golden chandelier. Wilkinson expressed, "Kimberley's a good place to hunt for diamonds. Thanks to Rhodes, perhaps, for improving its worth. They are the finest, also as my congratulation for your success."

 

Brilliant shimmer of sharp white and pale yellow, small pebbles of diamonds worth thousands to millions of pounds once bargained. He could imagine, the diamonds would be eye-catching after fashioned - the money, the millions that he would gain. Wilkinson rested the case on the lord's hands, pleased that he had taken his interest. Again. The amused shareholder added tonelessly, "Diamonds like these also worth something else."

 

"And what might that be?" he questioned, studying the pronged edges of a diamond rock.

 

"The people, my good sir. Countries. Power."

 

"How are you going to establish that? There are obstacles on your way, with diamonds alone you cannot achieve what you wanted."

 

The gentleman patted on the beige wooden chest, thrilled with his wealth, "I know someone we call the 'black horse'."

 

He noticed that Wilkinson was drawing him to destruction, but for the sake of a long-time friend that he had promised with - he managed to escape the diamond's temptation. No more, he thought. The day of betrayal had long gone. Through Lord Hemsworth's eyes, the glittering diamonds in the case was a genuine bounty for the things he had committed. Unjustified.

 

Snapping the lid of the case closed, he handed them back to the surprised gentleman, "...I am disappointed in you."

 

"I am merely telling you my ambition, was it really that hard for you to listen?"

 

And the ambition he had mentioned, required a great sacrifice of an innocent friend.

 

He snapped.

 

"... _James_ trusted you."

 

"James' wealth is mine now. And I've spent them for the good of our people!" Wilkinson chuckled lowly, putting the case back into its chest along with its hundreds of brothers. "And i must say, my lord... I am doing the best i can also for the sake of our England."

 

Following the careful steps of the dangerous gentleman, the lord muttered, "To you, there was no such thing as England."

 

"Is that how little you think of me?"

 

Lord Hemsworth rebuked, pointing at the chests that piled in the study room, "Is that how little you spare James' family?!"

 

Wilkinson replied him with a sinister smile as he faced the scowling Marquis, he brought out a chess board from his drawer and placed them gingerly on the table before the fuming lord. Returning to his seat, he placed every pieces coloured black on his side of the chessboard, beckoning the lord to play with him as he stated, "It is unlikely for upper-classmen to blend themselves with the inferiors... 'They' are too weak, too unworthy to be in our world. Unworthy for our mercy."

 

Glaring at the unreadable pair of eyes, he was about to play in a treacherous game of wits. He had to be careful, or else his whole family would pay the price.

 

Lining his own army of white pieces, the lord grumbled, "James always heed to your cries when you needed help, and this is how you repay him?"

 

"Inferiors will always be inferiors, Craig. It was fated to me to return them to the place where they belong," said Wilkinson, as he made his first move.

 

"Though you could not change someone's fate."

 

He raised an eyebrow, and sighed, "Agreed. But i can decide whether they are obligated to them or not. Maybe i should pause our endeavours with James' family, and feed them off to waste instead?"

 

"You've already led them to complete waste, Wilkinson," Lord Hemsworth answered, "You could at least show them you're still human."

 

"Human?" the old gentleman feigned innocence, moving his rook to the side and 'consumed' the Marquis' knight, "You want me to beg for forgiveness at a disease like James?"

 

He grumbled at the insult.

 

"Yes. I've already showed them mine," he said, 'eating' the shareholder's rook with his pawn, "Now that it's your turn, where is it?"

 

Wilkinson chuckled, "My dear, dear Marquis... Committing something justified does not require any forgiveness, especially when dealing with a lower-class like him."

 

"It was not justice! It was cruelty... Your greed for his wealth, diamond and silver, had taken control over you," he blurted, clenching his hand around the document that rested on his lap. "I will return these 'arrangements' to its owner. It is not mine to keep, not yours either. Or so i hope that you'd stop your schemes before i report this matter to the Empress."

 

Linking his fingers together, the smirk remained on the gentleman's face. "But you took part in it, my lord. To which you did not refuse," he said, sliding his knight piece forward and was elated that its position threatened the queen on Hemsworth's part.

 

The lord gritted his teeth, "You've threatened to assassinate the Empress and would sabotage an attempted destruction of the Crystal Palace on James. You've cornered me, and you made me very desperate."

 

"Hmm... A very good observation, i credit you for that," he whistled as he clapped his hands, "You should be careful to whom you speak to, dear Marquis. _Kretschmann_ is watching, you know?"

 

He could feel his anger rising at the name, what the said name had done years ago was heating his head furiously. He glowered, "The arrogant black horse..."

 

"Are you sure Kretschmann is the black horse?" Wilkinson asked amusingly, flicking the Marquis' queen with his knight after the lord failed to notice the danger. That was it, they had just started the game. He cleared his throat as he held out his hand, "Congratulations on your promotion, Lord Hemsworth. I bid you  _good luck_."

 

He slapped the gentleman's hand away as he rose from his seat, treading out from the suffocating study and the grand mansion. Once the agitated lord was in his car, he waved at Evans to drive him to his hotel. The edges of the document he was gripping tightly on his right hand were stinging him like needles, and he his brows furrowed. It weighed greatly as he turned the pages again.

 

Upon spotting the name that seemed to haunt him, his breath faltered. His hands trembled.

 

Sweats were dropping bullets : the names listed, the pictures along with the small amount of wealth that had left. The familiar face, his good friend's successor. And the fright he was feeling were all because of the sway of the diamonds. The lord pinched the bridge of his nose in dread. He knew Kretschmann - the outlaw, the assassin, the dealer - was on his tail, and the mysterious black horse that he believed to be spying on his family, his household, was exposing him bare for Wilkinson to initiate the death strike.

 

His voice quivered as he pleaded, "...God help us."

 

*

 

_"...C-Christopher."_

 

_Thomas gasped sharply into the pillow, both of his hands gripped on Christopher's wrists on his sides, his hands clutching on the sheets. His beloved's lips caressed and kissed down his reddened chest, whispering 'i love you' after each kiss. Thomas tried as best he could to push away the coming nightmares when the familiar pain gaped him wide open. With Christopher's voice, his warmth, his kiss - he thought, he would be all right._

 

_He felt exposed with Christopher inside of him, though his movement was gentle and slow. Christopher trailed his lips up to bite on Thomas' collarbone, and just from where his lips had stayed - he could feel Thomas' heart beating rapidly. The broken breathing and the tremoring chest. But when the young master pushed himself deeper, Thomas clenched his eyes tightly and sobbed._

 

_Christopher's broad and calloused hands cupped his face, kissing Thomas' welcoming damp lips as he settled himself between the footman's legs._

 

_"No, no... Don't close your eyes, Thomas. Darling, look at me. It's just me," the young master whispered against his mouth, brushing the strands of curls that plastered on Thomas' forehead, "...It's me."_

 

_Opening his teary eyes, Thomas breathed, "...I-It's you."_

 

_"Yes..." "C-Chris...topher," he cried, wounding his arms around his neck._

 

_He placed a kiss on the crook of Thomas' neck, returning the pained embrace and murmured, "Listen to my voice, my sweet... I'm right here. I'm right here..."_

 

_Christopher breathed out quietly._

 

His fingers combed and tangled through the soft unruly curls as Thomas's head was tucked below Christopher's jaw - sleeping contentedly. The young master loved how the footman's figure fit into his built perfectly, and gathered him close. Upon meeting Thomas, he knew that their fates that intertwined and joined and he was determined to keep it that way. He wondered if he had managed to strip the nightmares away from his beloved. Pulling up the blanket to cover Thomas' exposed back for warmth, Christopher looked through the fixed window of the first-class cabin situated on the wall behind his darling.

 

His pair of bright blue eyes smiled, admiring the wandering, endless stars floating on the distant horizon. If he was back at home, he doubted that the stars were as beautiful there compared to which he was watching at right now. But the graceful witching hours, seemed to relentlessly trying to tell him something important. Christopher tried to crack open the hidden obstacle between him and the moon's company, however, he couldn't quite grasp the answer yet. Something was hidden away amongst the white glaze of the reflecting moon, and Christopher pondered if he should ignore the moon's struggle.

 

Perhaps, he would eventually know about them.

 

Thomas stirred awake, but Christopher hushed him, brushing a hand on his back, "...Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I'm right here."

 

"What about you...?" Thomas' voice croaked, eyes dazed at him sleepily.

 

"I will soon," he smiled, kissing the footman's forehead and nuzzled his nose on the heap of curls smelled of fresh strawberries.

 

Thomas' arms wrapped around his waist as he cuddled a bit closer. Christopher could feel him smiling against the skin below his collarbone at his soft humming of a familiar nursery rhyme.

 

Christopher started in a whisper, smoothing his hand on Thomas' back lightly, " _...Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily--_ "

 

" _Merrily, merrily... merrily..._ " Thomas followed sleepily before he was completely pulled back to sleep.

 

Checking the calmed, sleeping face and the slow breathing, and the loose grasp around his waist. The young master ghosted his lips against Thomas' lips, the bright blue narrowed at the closed pair of eyes. He missed them already before continuing the nursery rhyme, murmuring, " _Life is but a dream..._ "

 

And the lullaby ironically suited to the obstacle he was facing. Life had never been so perfect for him, asking for good promises were forlorn.

 

Throughout the few of their days spending the ample of their time together on sea, on the beautiful 'Ensoleillé Rose', the lovers got to understand each other much more better. The stories before they met, the zenith of their childhood and the best moments they had with their families. Thomas shared him the best brotherly love he'd given to Emma, building her a swing so that she could enjoy the outside breeze to which they called as 'being free'. The passengers all looked withdrawn at him, but with his darling Christopher at his side - he could ignore their disgusted faces easily.

 

Christopher agreed with himself, the tickets to France might just be the right answer to mend his and Thomas' love.

 

In just a few hours more, the journey would end at the 'Le Havre' port. They spent their time at the bow of the ship, watching the splashing seas below them and the smell of salt lingering in their noses. Christopher decided that they would stay in Montreuil, northern France where his tutors lived. Turning his attention to the grey skies at the distant horizon, he chuckled, "Let's see... Pierce is a good man, great teacher. Strict, unfortunately. His wife, Keely is a wonderful cook."

 

They were talking about the Brosnan couple, whom had taken care of the handsome young master since young. They were indebted to Christopher's grandfather, and they were only told to take care of the young master in exchange for the money they owed. The more Thomas listened, the more he believed that not all of the upper-class people were selfish. Christopher had told him that the Brosnan couple was very hospitable, friendly and open-minded. And Thomas hoped they were really like what Christopher had fondly shared with.

 

"So, they were your caretakers too then?" Thomas asked, his eyes following the young master's handsome jawline, and the light scruff that he bore due to him neglecting his morning shave.

 

He nodded, leaning his back against the rail, "They taught me so many things when i was still a child. I get to know about the world, hungry for adventure. They are a part of me. I remember crying when they said they're going to France, because back then... I wasn't that entirely close with my family, except for mama and the servants."

 

Thomas understood that his darling had an awful childhood with his family, a complete contrast to him. But from the way he vigorously talked about his former caretakers, they sounded like two, very nice people. He slipped a hand to Christopher's, linking them tenderly. Though their linked hands were cold, they could fell continuously warm assurances of 'i'm right here' or 'i'm not going anywhere'.

 

The footman smiled, "I couldn't wait to meet them, Christopher. They sounded like a very nice company."

 

"Yes, they are," Christopher replied, wounding an arm around Thomas' shoulder as they quietly enjoy the beautiful autumn sun shining lightly above them.

 

"...About us, will they understand?"

 

He whispered, stealing a kiss on Thomas' cheek and gave his darling a wink, "Of course they will, darling."

 

Safely arriving to 'Le Havre', despite the sudden poor autumn weather, the merchants continued their daily trade : bellowing toward their workers who carried their goods to be shipped carefully, passengers of the 'Ensoleillé Rose' scurried hurriedly for shade toward the waiting area in the harbour. Setting off to two hours journey on a car sent by Pierce, the kind old driver brought them to the countryside of the raining Montreuil where Christopher's tutors had resided. They passed a small town where the townspeople scrambled away for shelter from the horrid rain.

 

Christopher pointed at the small manor on top of the hill, which was at a fair distance from the town where the Hemsworth family had built specially for the Brosnan couple. Vast vineyard encircled the manor, Pierce's main profession of making and storing delicious wines while Keely's job was to help the few workers who worked for them. Montreuil, Thomas remembered that his mother once owned a vineyard like this - but he never had the chance to visit them, he wondered where. Had the new owner took care of the vineyard as beautiful as this?

 

"We will get to harvest them somewhere early August," the young master nudged Thomas' elbow, "And we will get to spend a lot of time together."

 

"I will look forward for that."

 

He was entirely captivated with the adorable smile Thomas had on his face, he cleared his unfitting thoughts out of his mind and took out his journal from the pocket of his coat - relentlessly trying to change the subject, "Pierce's children are studying abroad in America, so it would be just the four of us for the time being."

 

Though Christopher was fortunate that Thomas didn't seem to notice his blush.

 

"What about the farmers?"

 

Rubbing his face to hide his heated fluster, Christopher cleared his throat, "They'll come by somewhere late July, i think."

 

Thomas wanted to ask his beloved about how he look, but decided that he didn't have the jurisdiction to look good in front of middle-class family like the Brosnans. But the young master noticed Thomas' anxiety about staying at his caretakers' place, and rested his palm on top of his darling's shivering hand, "You'll be fine."

 

He nodded.

 

Checking his journal, he had to begin his task soon if he want to spend time with Thomas. He sighed, "Pierce will accompany me to Paris instead, he knows a lot about father's property even more than i am. Will you be all right here in Montreuil?"

 

"I think i will enjoy staying here," Thomas smiled, returning his gaze to the reaching manor. Thomas was gripping Christopher's hand tightly when they finally arrived.

 

The couple welcomed the two young men with open arms, felt very comforting - honest. Helping out their few luggages, and ushered them to come inside as they apologised repeatedly for the sudden cold rain. Once inside, the two lovers glanced at each other that it would be better to tell the lovely couple about their relationship.

 

They hired no servants, it was just them. Closing the front door, Keely gave the tall young master a hug. Tipping her toe as she wrapped her arms around him, "I haven't seen you since you were 13! Look at how tall you are, and so suave!"

 

"Again, we are very sorry about the rain, Christopher. There hasn't been enough sun lately," Pierce sighed as he placed the young master's bag beside the stairs, and beckoned at Thomas to place his too.

 

"Please, it's all right. With or without sun, i could manage," Christopher grinned, returning Keely's hug before shaking Pierce's hand. He then turned his head to Thomas who stood silently at the back, and decided that it was time to tell. Gesturing his hand to the footman, he started, "Pierce, Keely... This is Thomas."

 

The footman bowed his head, he cursed inwardly at his abrupt stammering, "S-Sir, madam."

 

"Oh, why are you so jumpy, young man?" Keely cheered as she held his hands, her wrinkled smile was somewhat merciful. Her gaze, Thomas noticed, was much like his mother's - blue, compassionate and protective. They were soft pair of smiling eyes, hiding dozens of emotions in just a single look. "I can see that you're a great cook!"

 

Pierce shook his head at his wife's usual antics, rubbing his sported beard as he raised an eyebrow, he asked, "Friend of yours, Christopher?"

 

Thomas frowned, as far as he knew, the clothes he was wearing was that of a third-class, and a servant. It was either the couple pretended that they didn't know, or perhaps the rules of social classes didn't mean anything to them. The two were a duet of curiosity to an outsider like Thomas, though they emitted such radiant aura.

 

Scooting a bit closer to the restless footman, Christopher said immediately, "He's my lover."

 

There was a tinge of awing courage in his voice as he noted, and Thomas owed him for being brave. Though the couple's expressions were a bit suprising, they didn't look neither disgusted nor angry. They looked chirpy and excited at the news as Keely lightly squealed, clasping her hands together with the humbled Thomas, "My, my...! A lover! How long have you been together?"

 

"Probably m-more than a year," Christopher stuttered in disbelief, he half-expected hostility and perhaps degrading insults from his former tutors. And bravely rested his hand around Thomas' waist, "He's a footman... In the house."

 

Pierce sighed, nodding his head in indirect acceptance. And mumbled through his breath, slipping the locks on the door, "J'espère que vous n'êtes pas une mauvaise personne. Christopher a été par beaucoup..."

 

Keely snapped her head toward her husband, "Darling--"

 

"Je suis désolé--" Thomas murmured suddenly, lowering down his gaze to his and Keely's hands. "...Je suis désolé pour l'aimer."

 

Christopher gawked at him, in amazement and in complete surprise. The footman understood and heard what Pierce had said to him, but didn't seem to notice the stares from the couple and the young master, as he blurted out his apologies inadvertently. Keely hid her amusement beneath her charming smile, as she took a glimpse at both her husband and her former student. By the time she saw Thomas gracefully stepping out from the car a moment ago, she knew there was something different about him. Something majestic.

 

Keely stroked his cheek, as the corner of her lips tugged upward, "Nous comprenons."

 

"...Well, i didn't expect that but-- Lovers or not, if you're going to stay here, i suggest that you'll have to work," Pierce cleared his throat in embarrassment, and gave a stern look at the proud young master. He poked at finger on the young master's side, and warned, "That means you too, Christopher."

 

Christopher waved his hand, seemingly in a victorious way and also to test the farmer's temper if he was still the same teacher like some many years ago, "Yes, sir."

 

And the young master was answered with a light thwack on his head, replied with a grunt and a frown after spotting Pierce's sneering face. Yes, he was still the same. Thomas was told by Christopher that the farmer had his own way of accepting people, he knew Pierce meant nothing bad with his sparing mock earlier.

 

"Come, come, you don't have to stand here all day, Thomas!" Keely chuckled, pulling Thomas' hands along with her to the kitchen. Ordering the young master and her husband to bring the bags upstairs, linking her arm with the tall footman, "I have to ask you though if you know how to bake?"

 

Thomas smiled sheepishly, "Yes, i do. Perhaps not as good as you."

 

"Oh, you! With hands like yours, you could master every recipe!" she said, their voiced faded as the door to the kitchen swung closed.

 

Christopher sighed, he wouldn't get to spend time alone with Thomas after all. Scratching the back of his head, he noticed the farmer's understanding stare at him. He grunted, he knew what his tutor was thinking about.

 

He started, picking up his and Thomas' bags, "I don't want to hear anything..."

 

"I'm not trying to say anything bad, Christopher," Pierce shrugged as he walked up the stairs to show the young master his bedroom, "We just hope that Thomas is the right person for you."

 

"He is."

 

Halting at the top of the stairs, Pierce folded his arms across his chest. Noting the irritated gloom Christopher had on his face, he could see that the young master was ready to defend his beloved. He understood this cherished act of loyalty as it came naturally with the Hemsworth family.

 

The farmer nodded thoughtfully, and said in a low voice, "I don't want to stir up any misunderstanding between you two, but i think your Thomas belongs to a family you don't want to be involved with."

 

*

 

Liam had spent 15 days on sea, 5 days in a suffocating train after many pauses and a day of resting in a house built in Leadville, Colorado especially for the noble family. He despised travelling and perhaps working for his autocratic father, the family business was a burden and a headache for him as he never liked being told. He mulled over with his persistent thoughts, despite his anger issue with his father's business - he was about to usurp many things behind the scenes. 

 

As he stepped out of his car, he took in the busy view of the mines operated by his family; Hurriers hauling the heavy loads of silver ores out from a cave, the sound of incessant drills and a sudden dull explosion tremored and chilled. The autumn day was growing cold, the shedding leaves and the overwhelming, squalid smell of the mines as he walked toward a young hurrier who was wiping his sweat off his brows.

 

"Show me the silver," Liam asked politely, recognising the usual widened eyes and the stutters of a working-class to his superior. The young miner uncovered the heavy sheet off the cart he was dragging, showing a mountain of large silver ores that welcomed the sneering young master.

 

Then a voice called to him, "I expected that you'd be a little spoilt when it comes to silver."

 

When Liam turned to the origin of the voice as he waved his hand at the hurrier to continue his work, the young master was greeted by a gentleman dressed in a black double-breasted topcoat and a top hat. He rolled his eyes at the irritating grin the man curved on his face.

 

"I am not in the mood for your morning insult, Mads. Give me some time to recover from my journey," Liam sighed, striding to the mines' small office as he was followed closely by the Danish gentleman named, Mads.

 

Once inside the office, the gentleman shrug a shoulder and he simply said, "I'm not here to insult you, young master. Though i am restraining myself from doing so."

 

"Why are you here then?" he frowned, shedding his coat and flung them over to a nearby couch.

 

Slipping a letter out from the pocket of his coat, the gentleman handed it to the young master, "From Wilkinson."

 

Mr. Mads Mikkelsen was a loyal messenger under Wilkinson. He was a notorious dealer from the black market and also a man who had millions of ties with many underground agents who sold illegal chemicals, drugs and ores. Apart from his courteous, yet cavalier appearance, Mads was not to be trusted at times as he only pledged his loyalty to the 'highest-bidder'.

 

Liam scoffed at the opened seal of the letter, the red wax was glued back to the envelope. It was clear that the contents had already been read by the people of the civil law - to which it was a no surprise. But he was assured by the Danish gentleman that the hidden message was placed jumbled between useless characterisation of metaphors and personifications. The young master spotted them, reading each line with bitter amusement as he sat on his chair. 

 

"The game has started, and my father was the one who initiated it?" he questioned lightly, beckoning the gentleman to sit on the opposite chair and the man did as he was told. "It was rather surprising, is it not? Here, i thought he'd be more of a sage."

 

Mads nodded, setting his hat on the table in front of him and delivered, "Kretschmann is also on the move, going to Oxford to remove the deadbeat anarchists for you."

 

"What else did Wilkinson tell you?"

 

"Hmm, James is still a rich, lucky bastard."

 

Apparently, the man named 'James' still retained a scant of his wealth despite all of the harsh luck fate had given him. The young master was irked by the casual replies from the gentleman, and pressed on, "And?"

 

"He's planning to hunt the whole family down, wherever they are. And Kretschmann plans to gather a few things while he's in Oxford. To which i can't tell you what," he sighed, crossing his legs as he tiredly looked out through the window of the office.

 

The bellows of the workers outside echoed sluggishly through the wooden walls of the office, tinged with accents and anger to the miners who were slow of work. Flipping the reports placed on the table, he looked through them and was delighted at the amounts of silver ores they had extracted to which they had reached millions of pounds once molded to priceless materials. Liam had his ways around the business, to which his family never noticed. A chemical factory that he had silently built in Oxford under a nameless owner was to be protected at all costs, and Wilkinson was his partner in crime.

 

Liam hummed, handing the reports to Mads, "Tell Wilkinson that he is going to need my help in this venture of his, and so will i to him. My father is not the only one standing on his way."

 

"Ah, you did tell me that you are acquainted with James' son," the gentleman spotted immediately, smirking at the blossoming plan that would flourish. "And perhaps, your brother's involvement too."

 

He titled his head, and curved a sinister smirk, "That is why you will need my help."

 

Mads then snickered, shaking his head as he flipped through the pages of the report, "I wonder why your father didn't see you as the black horse, Liam. You're a cunning man."


End file.
